


Lucky Number Eight

by nervousn8



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Childbirth, Dead Friends, F/M, Friendship, Homophobia, Multi, Nightmares, No Smut, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reader-Insert, Recovery, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Therapy, Time Is Fake
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nervousn8/pseuds/nervousn8
Summary: After your previous team was killed in front of you, your skills with negotiation and tactical extractions are being put to use elsewhere. The BAU is nothing like the HRT, but you can't stay in your apartment any longer for fear you'll lose yourself in your head. For now, it's much easier to pretend you're just a soft spoken, undamaged transfer.Agent Hotchner probably won't even clear you for the field anyway. You don't have to worry about causing this team's downfall if you're not in the field with them. Right?
Relationships: Original Female Character(s)/Reader/Original Male Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 148
Kudos: 467
Collections: criminal minds hurt/comfort





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ngl i have No Clue where this came from or if i'll actually take it anywhere but who knows

You miss your team.

It’s not an unexpected thing, in fact, it’s something you’re used to. After four months of being completely and utterly alone, you’re so used to missing your team that it’s like breathing air. Second nature. Your therapist says it’s perfectly normal that you miss them, but that you should reach out to her immediately if you ever feel the need to be with them again.

You don’t tell her when you feel like that. It’s just another state of being, another part of your life that has become as normal as blinking. You don’t tell her that you should have died with them. You don’t tell her that you didn’t want to be saved. You don’t tell her that whenever you wake up in the morning and are greeted by the pristine smell of an air freshener that you can’t remember the name of, you wish your eyes had just stayed closed and you’d died in your bed. It would be no death to be proud of, but it’d be death all the same, and it would at least mean you wouldn’t have to live another day alone.

Your team’s leader, One, isn’t around to fill the silence with his terrible commentary. Two isn’t around to keep you in check, not that there’s anyone for her to actually watch. You’d tried to care for Three’s plants -her love of her garden had given you life- but you weren’t very skilled in keeping things alive. _You_ were barely alive anymore. No obnoxious jokes from Four to lighten your awful mood, his laughter absent in the empty space. Five and Six do not occupy your living room, neither man present to make fun of your photos. There is no Seven in your kitchen, trying and failing to bake something his brilliant mind created.

There is only you, lucky number Eight, in the confines of the apartment you despise.

Three’s house wasn’t like this. Her home was bustling and full of life. Her backyard was always full of birds and bees, her kitchen always full of Seven’s baked goods. Four spent a lot of time there as well, and with him often came One. They were always so lively, poking fun at the other whenever you had time off. Five and Six stayed in their own apartment a lot of the time, doing whatever it is husbands do. You were never sure. They’d come on Saturdays, your “Family Day”, and they’d always bring Two with them from her ballet studio. Five would grill, and Two would try to teach Four how to arabesque, and you all would be happy together.

That was why you saw your therapist on Saturdays. Being alone those first few Saturdays had been devastating, and you’d had to turn your gun into your supervisor out of fear for your own life. That’d been the last logical thing you’d done for the next month.

Three’s house had always been pleasantly warm, and you’d always slept so soundly pressed between her and Seven. Your apartment is freezing cold, the thermostat set at a bristling 55 to keep you shivering and awake. You don’t know what time it is anymore, the heavy curtains are always closed. You simply sit, drowning in the immense size of Five’s favorite sweater on the center of your plush couch, and you breathe. This is how you spend most of your time. 

There are seven folded flags resting on the coffee table before you today. You’d pulled them out of the drawer you’d previously stored them in when each funeral had ended. It had been torture, receiving a folded flag every two hours. You were all the family they’d had, and they’d been all the family you had. Now all that remains of them is their folded flags, and the clothes you’d taken before their homes had been sold. The flags judge you, the white stars belligerent against the soft caress of darkness that surrounds you.

Your Section Chief had called you earlier today- or possibly at some point yesterday. You’d been cleared to return to work. He recommended you stay within the building, a nice way of telling you that you weren’t cleared for the field yet, and you’d agreed. Then he’d told you that you were being moved to another unit, another part of the building entirely, and you’d almost forgotten how to breathe.

It made sense. Returning to the HRT without your team would have devastated you in a way you weren’t sure you could recover from. Wearing your old uniform without seven matching ones around you would have ruined you beyond repair. It made sense to move you to a new unit, where you could recuperate and regain your sense of self, but the fact that it was actually happening wasn’t something you’d ever prepared yourself for. It had always been a hypothetical. 

That phone call had somehow landed you where you are now, tired eyes flitting to each triangle of white stars. You hoped that maybe they would offer you some kind of wisdom, or a small amount of comfort. Maybe they’d help you work up the nerve to refuse. To quit.

Your Chief had placed you delicately into Erin Strauss’ hands, and she had called you about your new position in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. It didn’t make much sense to put you there, but you’d never been one to question orders out loud. In your head, where things ran a mile a minute, you’d screamed and cried about how unfit you were for a position like this. You had no degrees in psychology, you had no idea of what it took to judge a human’s character. At least, not in the ways that they did it. You were no profiler.

Erin Strauss was as nice of a woman as you would have expected. She’d been curt in her phone call with you, explaining that until you were cleared for the field, you’d be working as more of a secretary than anything else. Which, truly, you were fine with. If you were constantly fetching and filing, you had less time to talk to people. 

The flags don’t tell you anything, not that you expect them to. They’re not possessed by the ghosts of your friends. You put them away carefully, the thick socks on your feet silencing your steps on the wooden floor. When they’ve all been arranged and the drawer is shut, you snatch your silent phone from the back of the couch and creep into your bedroom. You’re not really sure how much time is left until your alarm goes off, but you also know you won’t check. 

The amount of blankets on your bed does little to keep the chill of the air away, but that’s intentional. The colder you are, the lighter you sleep, and the less likely you are to have nightmares. The medication you’re supposed to take to keep them away ran out a few weeks ago, but your therapist had told you you didn’t need to get it refilled, so you hadn’t. 

She didn’t need to know that your nightmares had come back threefold without it.

Your alarm goes off an undetermined amount of time later, rousing you from the gentle doze your tired mind had let you fall into. There were no nightmares, but you didn’t feel rested, either. This has become your normal. 

You shower in silence, finally taking care of your hair that you’d been neglecting for far too long. The water is dirtier than you’d like to admit, and you know Two would scold you for it. You lightly gel the more unruly strands in place, but the short length makes it easy to just let your hair be. Breakfast is a few spoonfuls of -possibly expired- yogurt, and then you’re dressed and out the door. It’s still dark outside. The drive to the building is just as silent, the numbers on the radio glaring into the darkness around you in bright red. You feel detached, barely present, but this is what you needed. To leave your apartment.

You still park in your old parking spot. Strauss has yet to inform you of where you’ll park in the lot closer to the BAU, and you won’t ask her about it until later. You flash your badge at each set of guards you pass, ignoring the looks a few of them give you. The closer you get to your old Chief’s office, the more pitying the looks grow. 

Being in the building isn’t awful, but it’s not a cakewalk either. You avoid the places you used to spend time with your team, walking briskly past the few places you can’t. The door to your old Chief’s office is cracked, so you let yourself in with no announcement.

“Gutierrez.” You call softly, offering a half-hearted smile when he glances up at you.

“Ah, (l/n).” He nods, leaning to the side and pulling out your firearm. He slides it across the desk and then beckons you to take a seat in one of the chairs. “How have you been?”

You seat yourself gently, lips quirking at the odd way he watches you. “I’m better.” You tell him, and it isn’t a lie.

“That’s good.” He responds lightly, gaze flicking from your face to the still untouched gun. “You’ll do great with the BAU.”

“I would like to hope so, yes.” You murmur, finally taking the firearm and clipping it to your belt. It’s weird to have it there again, and you have to shift it a few times before you’re able to sit comfortably. 

Gutierrez leans forward onto his elbows and rests his head on his folded hands. “You will. You have excellent people skills, and you’re better at reading people than most people I’ve met. It’s why we sent you in first.”

He seems to forget that the last time you were sent in first, all of the hostages ended up dead and your team was killed. You move your gaze to his eyebrows as you nod along. “Thank you, sir.”

You make small talk in his office for roughly 20 minutes, asking him simple questions about his wife and children. You learn he has another one on the way, and you congratulate him softly. Another alarm goes off on your phone at 6:45, and you stand up to take your leave. Gutierrez shakes your hand once you’ve left his office, and then you’re on your own again. 

You walk at a slower pace than necessary, stopping on your way there to pick up a coffee from one of the breakrooms. After a moment of hesitation you text Strauss to ask if she’d like a coffee as well, and you make the desired concoction in a disposable cup once you’ve received her answering text. You pop the lid onto hers before you throw away your own, cringing at the aftertaste of the coffee in your mouth. 

Strauss is just unlocking her office when you get there, and she takes the coffee from you once her door is open. The bullpen area is still empty, but one of the other offices has lights on inside of it.

“You made this rather well.” Strauss says after she’s taken a sip of her coffee, settling into her high-back chair and pinning you with a knowing stare. “Tell me truthfully, do you think you’re ready to be back in the field?” 

You could say yes. The you from five months ago would have said yes, regardless of if you’d truly meant it. “No.” You say softly, taking a moment to pull a bit of dead skin from your bottom lip with your teeth. “But if I’m needed in the field, I can go.”

She seems satisfied with your answer, nodding before she takes a long drink from her coffee. A small poke of pride prickles in your fingertips- it feels nice to be appreciated. Strauss stands, and you follow suit. “I’ll show you to the archives while we wait for your new team members to arrive.” She watches you as she says it, and you keep your face calm despite the bile rising in your throat.

‘Your new team’. The phrase sends your mind screaming, shaking in the dark alcove it’s carved out for itself. You want _your_ team. 

The archives are situated in the basement, and the archivists are a small group of soft spoken individuals. Strauss asks one of them to show you around, and then she leaves with the order to come back to her office by 8:00. You glance down at your watch when she leaves, then back up to the archivist in front of you.

“I’m Jacob.” He lulls, and you give him your name in return. He takes you down each section, leading you through the many rows of shelves and offering tips on how to find things as you go along. He explains the process of digitizing, and then he adds you to a groupchat with the other archivists so you can request a case file when the time comes around. He walks you back to the elevator as your tour comes to a close, and he offers you a small smile. “Good luck up there, Agent.”

“Thanks.” You mutter, pressing the button for your floor and leaning your shoulder into the back corner of the elevator. 

The metal box climbs slowly, each floor ticking by at the pace of a snail, and then it comes to a stop near the ground floor. The doors open and a blonde woman who is just slightly shorter than you gets on. She smiles politely and goes to press the button for her floor, but her finger stops just above the button that’s already lit up.

“We’re going to the same floor.” She laughs, and she turns to you to make conversation. “You must be the new agent, I haven’t seen your face before.”

“I am.” You reply kindly, though you offer no smile in return. 

She takes it in stride, but you clock the minute furrow of her brows. “I’m Jennifer Jareau, but everyone calls me JJ. I’m the press liaison.” 

You give her your name, shaking the hand she offers you, but your eyes keep flitting to the numbers. You want this elevator ride to be over before this very nice lady makes you feel bad for not being receptive. 

“Are you nervous?” She asks, and you bite back a sigh.

“Not really. I’m just curious what exactly I’ll be doing, is all.”

She nods, and you both step out as the elevator door opens. “You’ll be on the field with us, won’t you?”

You won’t. Hopefully you won’t ever be, but you also know that’s unlikely. “Not yet. Strauss has to clear me for the field first.”

That very woman calls your name, and you offer Ms. Jareau a hasty goodbye before you slip into Strauss’ office. She eyes you, and a glance further into her office reveals a tall man with a probably permanent scowl etched onto his face. Your file is open in front of him.

“This is SSA Aaron Hotchner.” Strauss introduces, and you shake his offered hand. “He’s already been briefed on your situation. Your return to the field is up to his judgement.”

Now you _really_ don’t think you’ll be returning to the field. You follow Agent Hotchner around the edges of the bullpen and into his office, waving softly when Ms. Jareau waves at you. The people around her watch you closely, and you turn your gaze back to Agent Hotchner’s shoulder.

He shuts the door and places your file in one of his drawers before he turns back to you. 

“Until you’ve proven yourself to be capable in the field, you’ll remain here with Agent Penelope Garcia. She is our Technical Analyst. Your experience in the HRT will be good for our team once you’ve been cleared.”

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner.” You reply quietly, keeping your twitching fingers safely tucked in the pockets of Four’s cardigan. It is slightly on the unprofessional side of too big, but no one can tell when you roll up the sleeves.

Agent Hotchner regards you for a moment, the crease between his eyebrows seemingly cemented there. “Losing your entire team is something very few people can bounce back from. I hope that it won't hinder your progress with the BAU.”

You snort. It’s not the reaction you should’ve given, but it’s the only one that seemed to fit. “I have a good therapist, sir. Thank you for your concern.”

He nods in a way that concludes your conversation, and then he leads you out of his office and into the bullpen area. The group of people who had been watching you earlier, and who were now trying to look like they’d been busy, gather around when he beckons them.

Agent Hotchner introduces you first, and you offer them a smile. They’re an odd little group, all different ages and backgrounds, but they carry a sense of familiarity amongst themselves. 

“These are Agents Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan, David Rossi, Jennifer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, and Dr. Spencer Reid.” 

You shake the hands that are offered to you, stiffening into Agent Garcia’s hug, and offering Dr. Reid a half smile when he doesn’t offer his hand. You greet them softly, already feeling the tiniest bit overwhelmed by how friendly they all are. Agent Hotchner tells them that you’ll be working closely with Agent Garcia until you’re cleared for the field, and the tech analyst claps happily.

“Come, come! Let me show you my lair. Oh, you’ll be the Robin to my Batman, how exciting!” She starts toward what you assume is her office on her incredibly high heels, and you glance back over your shoulder with furrowed brows. Agent Morgan laughs at your predicament with Agent Prentiss and Rossi, and Ms. Jareau just offers you a reassuring smile as Dr. Reid waves goodbye. 

“Careful not to kill her, Baby Girl.” Agent Morgan calls after you both, and Agent Garcia scoffs over her shoulder. 

“I won’t! I’m a delight.”

You decide then and there that Three would have loved this woman, and it makes your heart ache. You’re not going to make it out of this alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've been with the BAU for a little over two weeks now, and things aren't that bad. You don't really have to interact with them if they're not there, and thankfully, cases steal them away more often than not.
> 
> And after a rough night of bad dreams, you discover that your neighbor is actually one of the last people you wanted them to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha we do be interacting with that one doctor guy this time

You make it all of two weeks before your -admittedly very weak- walls crumble to Penelope. 

Her bubbly personality is intoxicating, her penchant for physical affection and kind words wearing your touch-starved resolve down in a matter of hours each day. Your head finds purchase on her shoulder on days like today, watching her fingers fly across the keyboard as she does research for the case her team is on. Penelope is warm and kind, and her presence blows on the embers of self-recovery that have been festering in your soul since you made the decision to seek professional help all of those months ago. Your therapist loves her.

One of the computer screens blinks with a video call, and Penelope answers it with a tap of one of her keys. Agent Morgan’s face comes to life on the screen, and you don’t miss the way his gaze stops on you before bouncing back to Penelope. You can see the rest of the team gathered around his shoulders, and you remove yourself from the camera’s view out of reflex.

“Hey, Baby Girl. What’ve you got on ou-”

You tug your phone out of your pocket and type out the details into the archivists group chat, rolling your chair behind Penelope and parking it at your little desk as you glance over at the few solid files on your desk. You pass the one to her that will actually help, shooting off the text to the archivists and standing from your chair. 

“Little Bird,” Penelope calls, and you turn around expectantly. “JJ wants you to try and find anything about this guy’s immediate family. Apparently his dad has been in and out of the system.”

“It’s likely our unsub is trying to emulate someone else’s behaviors and kidnapping. Search for an uncle or a grandfather. It’s likely the unsub would have spent an extended amount of time with this man in his youth.” Dr. Reid comments. You ignore the little stutter your heart makes at his sure tone. Seven used to talk like that when he was trying to teach you how to bake.

“I’ll call if I find anything.” You promise, slipping out of the room after pretending to catch the kiss Penelope blows to you.

The rhythm you’ve settled into is strange. There are times where you’re barely present, everything blurring around you as you go through the motions of a typical day. Those days often correlate with the few days a week the team is actually working from the bullpen. There are other times where breathing feels as though it’s slaughtering you from the inside, the absence of One’s god-awful cologne making it glaringly obvious just how dead your team is. That had been the general feeling of your first week, and those days came back with a vengeance every once in a while.

Some days, growing in number, were like this one. Making trips between the archives and Penelope’s office, blanketed in the soft atmosphere of the basement or the eccentric warmth of her office. The blue glow of her monitors did nothing to stifle your content mood. Your therapist is so proud of the progress you’re making, and you’re genuinely proud of yourself, too. It’d been a terrifying thought at first, to consider Penelope your friend; you’d been convinced that you were moving on too quickly and replacing the space your team had occupied. It had taken an entire session for your therapist to help you understand that you were allowed to be happy, even if it didn’t feel like it at times.

You take the stairs down to the archives, just as you do every other time. It’s faster than the elevator, and you enjoy being able to swipe your card and make the electric door beep in order to let you into the basement levels. Jacob greets you once you’ve entered the archives, and Patience -a very short woman with wild black curls utop her head- waves you over to her desk where she’s pulling files from a box. 

“I had to dig this box out of the back, but it’s from the year you were looking for.” She tells you, full lips pulled into a meek smile, and you gently nudge her shoulder with your elbow.

“Thank you. Are you alright if I call them from down here?” You ask.

Jacob comes over to help you sort through the files, flipping open each one as he goes and sorting them into different piles. “You’re just fine. We’ll try to behave.” 

You roll your eyes with a small sigh and flip open a file with your left hand while you press the call button for Penelope’s office phone. She picks up on the second ring.

“Batcave to Robin, come in.” She trills, and you laugh softly. 

“The team on the line?” You lull, closing the file you’d previously been going through and opening another one. To your left, Patience begins digitizing the one you’d just discarded.

“We’re here, (l/n).” Agent Hotchner responds sternly. “What’ve you got?”

You hum gently as you open a third file, taking in the unsub’s father’s wrinkled face. “Unsub’s dad was in and out of prison for a while, all on charges of grand theft he mysteriously got away with after the fact. He died six years ago.”

“That can’t be our guy.” Agent Prentiss responds, and you nod in agreement even though they can’t see you. You tell them more of what’s in his file, but it all proves to be nothing. 

“There aren’t any uncles or grandfathers on record.” You tell them after you’ve gone through all of the files in the box. “Maybe there was someone else?”

Agent Rossi, who had just been connected to the call, confirms your question. “The unsub’s mother had a boyfriend when he was younger, a man named Elliot Walker. She wouldn’t say anything, but I have a feeling that’s our guy.”

You’d already stepped into the rows of shelving the second he’d uttered the man’s name, pulling out the box from the corresponding name and year you were looking for. You exhale harshly as you skim over the file in your hands.

“Here it is, Elliot Walker. I think he’s your guy. He was arrested when the unsub was a kid.” You tell the team through the phone, sighing in disgust the further you get into his file.

“Why was he arrested?” Agent Morgan asks, and you pull more skin from your bottom lip. It’s going to bleed at this rate.

“He was arrested at 33 for multiple charges of battery, kidnapping, rape, and murder. His name was cleared just before his release nine years ago at 74 years old.”

There’s a sigh through the phone, and you can hear the shuffling of papers. “That’s our guy.” Agent Hotchner confirms, and you bite back a sigh. “Thanks, (l/n).”

You end the call before any more words can be exchanged, closing the file and tucking it under your arm as you put the box away. Jacob and Patience watch you as you go, neither looking like they’re thinking great thoughts. You smile at them as you move to head back toward the stairs.

“So that guy just like… made a mini him?” Patience asks you, and you nod solemnly. “That’s twisted.”

“People are freaky.” You respond lightly, waving goodbye as you step through the electric door and turn to climb the stairs. You take them three at a time, using them as an impromptu workout as you go. You haven’t been able to work out as often with your new position, the calls about cases calling you in often at odd hours. You stop in the breakroom to buy a water bottle for yourself, and you sigh in content at the cold condensation on your palm.

Penelope is waiting for you when you get back, looking vaguely unsettled. One glance at her computer reveals why: the files for this case pulled up on her computer screen. You place the new one on your desk, accepting the hug she stands to give you.

“I don’t know how you don’t look more uncomfortable, Little Bird.” Penelope tells you, sitting back down in her chair and minimizing the pictures of the case. “You’re newer to this stuff than I am.”

You snort around the sip of water you’d taken, coughing when it winds up in your lungs. You exhale heavily once you’ve taught yourself how to breathe again. “Pen, I transferred here from HRT. I’m not new to any of this.”

She sputters in response, shaking her head. “No way! I mean, way, obviously, I know you transferred from HRT. But you’re barely older than Spencer, there’s no way you could be used to seeing stuff like this.” She really looks at you then, squinting for effect, and then shakes her head in exasperation. “Oh my god, you really are used to it. How? I demand details, Little Bird.”

“Well, according to my old Section Chief, I have amazing people skills.” You begin, weighing the story you’re going to spin in your head as you sit cross-legged in your chair and turn it to face Penelope. A lighter version of the truth won’t be awful. “I was often sent in first as a kind of last ditch negotiation effort. This also meant I was the first to see any casualties that had occurred before we got there.”

“You were a negotiator?” Penelope asks you, and you give a half nod before thinking better of it and shaking your head. 

“Kind of. I was the most likely to be able to negotiate a surrender, but I was also the most likely to be able to get out should the negotiations have gone south. I once had one of the teenagers I saved describe me as a ‘badass ninja bitch’, and I absolutely agreed with her.” 

Penelope laughs, and the two of you make small talk until it’s time for you both to head home. You wave goodbye to her over the hood of your SUV, turning it into a two finger salute when she pulls a face at you. 

The drive back to your apartment is just as silent as it always is, and with it creeps in the vague sense that you’re not actually present. You flip the radio on in an attempt to keep it away, grounding yourself with the sound of Beyonce’s heavenly voice. You park in one of the few remaining spaces in your building’s lot and recline in your seat as you wait for the song to finish.

Your apartment isn’t as cold as it normally is. It sits at a solid 60 degrees now, still cold enough to keep you shivering, but less detrimental on your bills. If it weren’t for all the inheritance you’d received from your team, you likely wouldn’t have a place to live with how cold you’d been keeping it. That thought alone ruins the light mood you’d managed to develop, dropping you off into a bleak kind of self-hatred. You dump your keys on the counter and kick your shoes off by the door, and you rely on your memory to navigate you through the dark space.

An alarm goes off on your phone just as you’re about to throw yourself onto your couch, and you release a short yell of frustration. You pull it out of your pocket and squint against the bright screen, staring at the blaring ‘ **GYM** ’ flashing above the icon for your ringing alarm. You silence your phone and continue to stare at the flashing word for a few moments before you turn it off and make your way into your bedroom.

You flip the lightswitch, sighing when the soft yellow light of your floor lamp illuminates your room. It is mostly made up of your king bed -something you’d bought with your first ever big paycheck- shoved into the far corner against one of your windows. On the wall to your right are two doors, one to your ensuite and another to your small closet. Tens of boxes are stacked between the foot of the bed and the wall, filled to the brim with the things you’d chosen to keep from your team’s homes. Mostly photographs and nicknacks, but you can’t bring yourself to go through them yet. 

The only decoration on your walls is a mirror that’s velcroed to the wall by your door with a small blanket draped over it. You pull it back, rubbing your fingers over the soft fabric. Three had insisted you keep the mirror covered when you slept or else demons would use it as a portal to come through and get you. You hadn’t necessarily believed her, but you would’ve done anything for her praise. You miss her.

You set the blanket on your bed and meet your own eyes in the mirror. You don’t recognize the woman staring back at you. Your hair is still the same, and your eyes still look just as tired, but she doesn’t feel like you. Part of you is still tied up in the basement of that god awful building, watching the people you love bleed out one by one before your eyes. You’re not sure that part of you will ever be rescued like the physical you was.

Reflection isn’t why you’re looking in the mirror right now, and you huff as you push those thoughts away. You slip off Four’s cardigan and then unbutton your shirt after it, shrugging it off and letting it pool around your socked feet. You turn to the side and flex, frowning at the state of your biceps and triceps. They’re not  _ bad _ , per se, but they’ve lost some of the definition you’d built up while you were on leave. Before you’d been cleared to work again, your body had been nearly 100% muscle. You’d been so angry for so long, and the times you weren’t crying in your apartment, you were abusing your body in the gym. Your new job doesn’t allow as much free time, and you could use this time to go and work off your negative feelings.

You call your therapist as your indecision grows, and your body relaxes when her soothing voice picks up the phone.

“I would recommend some simple cardio, if you truly want to workout.” She tells you gently. “We can take your percentages on the new bioelectrical impedance analysis scale when you come in on Saturday, if you’d like.”

“I would, thank you so much.” You respond breathily, an almost relieved laugh bubbling out of you. You hang up the phone and change into a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and you hang the thin flowered blanket back on the mirror before you leave the room. You strap your armband to your left arm and tuck your phone into it, flipping on the lamp closest to the door to help you pick out which running shoes to pair with your clothes. 

You flick through your playlists on the drive to the gym, finally finding one and humming softly to it once you’ve chosen. The sun is just beginning to set when you arrive, and you scan your membership card as you enter. The gym is rather full, but you find a free treadmill, and you run.

Running is therapeutic. It’s something Six taught you, and even though you’d hated running at first, and Five had often had to fireman carry you the rest of the way in the beginning, you swore by running now. Back when you were eating well, you could have run the Boston Marathon and then some. Probably. You’d never tested it, but Six would race you for miles on your free mornings. You run for three hours, give or take a couple breaks in which you’d slowed to a light jog or increased the incline, and by the time you finally decide you’ve run yourself ragged, it’s dark outside. A glance at your phone tells you it’s well past 10pm. 

You stop at one of those 24 hour convenience stores on your way home, picking up a ‘healthy’ microwave dinner. You want your therapist to be proud of you, and you know actually eating will help with that. You check your phone again as you wait in line, snorting softly at the plethora of pictures of cute animals Penelope has sent you. There’s also a text from Ms. Jaraeu, updating you on the case, and you respond to both kindly. 

You’re not really sure how you feel about the team anymore. Your therapist thinks they’re good for you, as does your old Chief. Part of you -most of you- still wants to hold them at arm's length, but it is proving to be rather difficult with how blatantly insistent they are on trying to befriend you. They don’t comment on your refusal to call them by their regular name, save for Penelope. She’d almost had a meltdown the one time you called her Agent Garcia, and you hadn’t done it since. 

You microwave your meal when you get home, shivering against the freezing air and turning your thermostat up a few more degrees. You’ll turn it back down before you go to bed. You turn the TV on as background noise while you eat, watching it absentmindedly from your place on your kitchen counter. The meal, some strange concoction of possibly fake chicken, soggy vegetables, and stiff noodles, fills your stomach rather quickly, and you have to put the rest in a container and into the fridge. It probably shouldn’t be reheated, but you aren’t going to waste it.

Your shower is blessedly warm. You drape yourself in a large baseball shirt and collapse on your bed, worming your way under the covers and pressing your nose against the cold wall. You haven’t felt this pleased with yourself in a long time. It feels like you’re  _ finally _ doing something right for a change.

-

It is only when you sob yourself awake some unknown amount of hours later, choking on your own tears, that you realize you forgot to turn the thermostat back down. 

You feel sorry for whoever lives above you considering the few times you’ve woken up screaming, though from the sounds of it, they have their fair share of nightmares as well. You’ve heard them scream themselves awake on occasion, and you take care to be extra quiet when you can hear them cry. You can only hope they’re doing the same thing for you, as though you’ve reached some unspoken mutual understanding. 

You stifle your cries anyway, curling around your knees and shoving your fist in your mouth. You work through the breathing exercises your therapist taught you when you first told her about your nightmares, trying your best to calm down and force the images from your mind. You shuffle to the other side of the bed and turn the table lamp on, shining the light onto your hands. Aside from saliva, snot, and tears, your hands are clean. There is no blood on them, and there is no one else in your bedroom with you. You’re not there anymore.

The shower calls your name anyway, and you’ve never been one to deny it. You head into the main part of your apartment and turn the thermostat all the way back down to 55 regardless, sighing softly in relief when you hear the AC jump to life in the vents. You scrub your hands until they sting in the hot water of the shower, and then you curl into yourself on the floor of the tub and stay there until the water has run cold. You dry yourself off and dress in more thick clothes that are too big for you as quickly as you can, shivering as the now cooling air stabs at your bare skin with little needles. 

You pick up your phone from the bedside table and flip it over, scoffing to yourself as you read another series of texts from Penelope. You respond in kind, doing your best to match her enthusiasm about the photo of kittens she’d attached. You glance at the time a moment after you press send and cringe. It’s 2:48am. She’s going to want to know why you were up so late, or early. You should’ve waited to respond until later.

It’s too late now, though, so you shrug and unplug your charger, carrying it with you to the living room where you plug it into one of the extension cords and set it on a table nearby. Whatever Penelope has to say about you being awake at this hour is a problem for Future You, because Current You is going to park herself on the couch and watch whatever garbage they play on TV at 3am. That show happens to be Family Guy, which One adored, so you stick with it regardless of how it makes you feel.

You doze in and out of sleep for the next couple hours, content under your thick blanket as Peter Griffin’s obnoxious laughter replaces the sobs of your dying team. Your alarm buzzes at 5am like it always does and you flick the TV off, contorting yourself over the back of the couch to reach your phone faster. You turn this alarm off and dress leisurely in your room, doing your very best to make the hard decision between a well fitted professional blouse and a simple deep red t-shirt. The t-shirt wins in the end, the soft feeling far more appealing than the odd papery feel of the blouse. You tug on a pair or tailored trousers and some socks with dogs on them, and then you duck into your bathroom.

Not having to shower in the morning is honestly such a blessing. You have so much more time to sort through what you want to wear, or what lotion and perfume you want to use. Granted, you have that time anyway, but it’s still nice to be early. Being early always eases the fluttering of your heart as you eliminate any chance of missing anything or being late. You settle for a soft smelling lotion that doesn’t have a label anymore, and you pair it with an equally soft perfume. You do a small skincare routine for your face as an afterthought, doing your best to physically recover from your awful dreams.

It’s only 5:30 by the time you leave, and you make it to work before six. Overall a very good drive, and you’re pleased with yourself. 

You’re just settling at your desk in the bullpen when the BAU’s doors open and the team steps in. You meet each set of tired eyes with an awkward wave, now effectively caught at work far earlier than you’re supposed to be. In their minds, you probably shouldn’t even be awake yet. 

“How did the case go?” You ask them, watching with growing concern as they amble like zombies to their desks. Agent Rossi, the seemingly least dead on his feet, responds.

“As well as it could have. We apprehended the unsubs.” He studies you for a moment and then his gaze flickers to Dr. Reid -who is squinting at his desk drawer as though it’d offended him- and then he turns back to you. “Do you think you could drive Reid home? The two of you live in the same building, it shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Your mind grinds to a painful halt, and you spin to face Dr. Reid. He looks just as confused as you feel. “We do?” You ask at the same time, and Agent Rossi nods. 

“You can come back after, obviously, but he’d get home faster if you drove him.”

You know he’s right. Spencer doesn’t have a car (for some reason??), and taking public transport while he’s exhausted probably isn’t the best idea. You’re still struggling to wrap your head around the fact that you live in the same building. How long had you been neighbors?

“If you need a ride, I can give you one.” You say, directing your gaze back to Dr. Reid. He’s gone back to fidgeting with his desk, and he finally pulls whatever it is he’d been searching for out of the drawer. A book. “Do you?”

He hmms, glancing up at you. You force yourself not to cringe at the bags under his eyes. 

“Do you need a ride?”

“Oh. Yes, please.” He responds tiredly, and you watch him with quiet concern as he grabs his things and ambles to the door. You exchange a few worried looks, though everyone else seems just as tired, and then you scurry after him.

He takes three wrong turns before you finally grow annoyed and grab the strap of his bag, using it to drag him along behind you. It only worries you more when he doesn’t protest.

“Dr. Reid, how long has it been since you slept?” You question, pushing the door open and leading him out into the parking lot. 

“A few days, give or take.” He responds lightly, climbing into the passenger seat of your SUV and buckling himself in. He smiles at the look you give him, and your heart does its stupid stutter again. “When a person stays awake for 48 hours or more, their cognitive functions will decrease, and their brain will start entering brief periods of complete unconsciousness, also known as microsleep.”

You stare at him for a moment, pulling a bit of skin from your bottom lip. “Have you been awake for 48 hours?” You ask him gently, reaching over to his seat and reclining it further than it’d already been.

“I have not. But I could, if I wanted to.” He stares at you again for a long time, and you can feel his eyes on you even as you begin to drive. You’re halfway through the parking lot before he speaks again, and his mumbled words make you snicker. “You smell nice.”

You laugh quietly when you glance over at him, barely able to see his eyes through the tired slits they’ve fallen into. “Go to sleep, Dr. Reid. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

Parking doesn’t wake him up like you thought it would, nor does turning the car off. You reach out and shake his shoulder gently, fighting back a laugh when he simply grunts and tries to shove you off. 

“Hey.” you call softly, leaning around to get a look at his face. His nose is scrunched as he tries to hold on to the last pulls of sleep. “I could probably carry you, but I don’t know which apartment is yours. You’re going to have to wake up.”

His eyes flutter open and he takes a long moment to inhale, and then Dr. Reid squints at you again. “You couldn’t carry me.” He tells you matter-of-factly, and you scoff.

“I absolutely could.”

“Prove it.” He challenges, and you suck in a sharp breath. He needs to go inside so you can go back to work and drown in your case files. It’s safer there.

You smile at him kindly, finally pulling your hand away from his shoulder when you remember it’s there. “You need to go get some rest. Another case might pop up out of nowhere.”

Dr. Reid regards you for a while more before he nods, and he unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car. He points to one of the sets of windows, and you swallow as dread fills your stomach. “That’s me.” He tells you, glancing back at you and lowering his hand.

“I actually live right under you.” You force a laugh into your words, glad the doctor is too tired to really pick up on your clearly faked amusement. He hums a quiet goodbye and shuts the door to your car, and you drive off as soon as he’s a safe distance away.

_ Why _ did that man have to be your neighbor? It’d have been one thing if he maybe lived in the other apartment on the top floor, or maybe the one that was next to yours, but no. He had to be the one person in the building that shared a ceiling/floor with your bedroom. You suddenly want to apologize to him for all the nights you’ve probably kept him awake with your nightmares, but then your brain runs full-circle. If Dr. Reid is your neighbor, that means he’s  _ also _ had nightmares. Still has them, every now and then. 

It’s an unsettling realization when you acknowledge that you know what the man sounds like when he weeps.

Maybe you won’t apologize. He won’t say anything either, and you’ll live out the rest of your days as buddies who cry in solitude and then don’t say anything about it when they see each other. It’s like a dirty little secret you both share.

You wish you could just think that he can’t hear you, but you know he can. You can hear him, afterall, and you doubt the ceiling works like a one-way mirror for sound. 

Fuck.

You lean your head against the steering wheel when you finally park at work, stomping your feet against the floor in a moment of frustration. Why did the world have to be so  _ small? _ Your stomach growls loudly, and you finally pull yourself back to a form of functionality. You could laugh at all of this, honestly. Who would have thought you’d be neighbors with someone from this team you were trying so hard to avoid?

The microwave breakfast burrito you get out of the breakroom is atrocious, and you decide that you’re going to actually go grocery shopping after your second bite. You can’t keep eating nuked food, it isn’t sitting well with your body. You dump the unfinished burrito in the trashcan and hunker down at your desk afterwards, sorting through case files and wrapping up loose ends. You are the only one in the bullpen, so you hum a wordless tune as you work.

You hear Penelope’s heels before you see her, and you refrain from tensing up as she speedwalks to your desk. She clears her throat once she’s standing before you, and you look up at her like a child ready to be scolded. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?” She asks you, sniffing for effect. You fight a grin as you stare up at her.

“Agent Rossi asked me to take Dr. Reid home. I was a little preoccupied. Did you know he and I live in the same building?” You ask the question as an afterthought, smiling as innocently as you can. 

“I did, actually. Did you not know that?” She pauses, and narrows her eyes in betrayal as she points at you accusingly. “Don’t you try and distract me, Little Bird. Why were you awake so early this morning?”

You half shrug, flipping your pen around between your fingers as you bite your lip. “I don’t sleep a lot?” Your statement is more of a question, and you can tell it doesn’t satisfy her. 

Penelope snuffs down her nose at you, grabbing the file from your desk and making her way to her office. “You’ll be working in my office today. And should you happen to fall asleep, I will do the gracious thing and pretend not to notice.” 

You snicker when she looks over her shoulder at you, the grin splitting her lips making her fake haughty attitude dissolve rather quickly. You’ll humor her at the very least, gathering your things and following her to her office. You rush to push the door open, bowing as she walks by. “After you, my liege.” You tease lightly.

“It is lovely to finally be appreciated around here.” Penelope snubs, and you laugh as you shut the door behind you both. 

You spend most of your day bouncing back and forth between the archives and Penelope’s office, running up the stairs each time as an added burst of cardio. It’s on your fifth trip back up the stairs at nearly 2pm that you run face first into Agent Morgan’s chest. You both reach out to steady each other, and instead end up doing some awkward version of a high five. 

“Where’re you headed so fast, speed demon?” He jests, and you give him a breathless smile as you keep going up the stairs.

“Gotta get my cardio in somehow, Agent Morgan!” You respond, continuing your ascent up the stairs without looking back. 

He calls after you, projecting his voice up the middle of the stairwell. “I’ll have to take you running with me sometime, kid. You seem fast.”

You don’t respond to him, instead scanning your card and opening the door to the BAU’s floor. You bring your tablet with you into Penelope’s office, shutting the door behind you and flopping into your chair with a quiet groan. This is the largest number of people you’d interacted with from the team in the span of one day. Usually you hide in the archives when they’re in, but you thought you’d be okay since they’d come back from a case this morning.

“What’s wrong, Little Bird?” Penelope asks you, spinning in her chair to face you as she sips whatever drink she has through her colorful straw. “You’re all moany and groany today.”

You struggle to find the right words, instead gesturing vaguely as you make more frustrated noises. 

Penelope nods in understanding. “I see, I see. Let’s think about something else then. I want to know more about your training and work in the HRT.” She nods once more, and you know the decision has been made for you. And with nothing better to do, you tell her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's officially your first Girl's Day! Hopefully it won't overwhelm you too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> most chapters are either gonna start or end with our tall skinny white boy but yall came here for him anyway so that shouldnt be a problem

You’d made mention to Penelope that you needed new air fresheners for your apartment one Tuesday morning, and she’s shown up to your apartment that following Saturday, today, with Agent Prentiss in tow. They greet you with bright smiles, and you meet their gazes with wide eyes.

“Surprise!” Penelope exclaims, moving around you and dipping into your apartment. She twirls around your small entryway and then turns to squint at you. “You’re not dressed.”

You are, in fact, not dressed. You’re wearing a gigantic sweatshirt and some biker shorts, severely underdressed compared to Penelope’s colorful dress and Agent Prentiss’ t-shirt and capris. It’s only 9am. 

“Did we have plans?” You ask fearfully, letting Agent Prentiss inside, and then your gaze snaps to Ms. Jareau as she comes down the stairs. Her son, Henry, is babbling happily on her hip. “I feel like I’d remember if we had plans.”

You probably wouldn’t  _ make _ plans, is what you don’t say.

“Did the Boy Genius answer?” Penelope says, completely disregarding your question. 

Ms. Jareau shakes her head and readjusts Henry on her hip. “No. I figured Spence would be awake by now, but I guess not.”

You close the door behind her, cringing to yourself as you quickly turn the thermostat up to 70. It’d have already been there, but you weren’t expecting guests. “I think he sleeps late on the weekends? I don’t usually hear him walking around until sometime after noon.” You offer hesitantly, and you wave at Henry when he waves at you. “You never answered my question, Pen. Did we have plans today?”

“We did not.” Penelope responds happily, and she continues to mill around your apartment. “Today is your very first girl’s day, and we continued the tradition by gracing you with our presence unannounced. Henry is also here, but he’s an honorary girl.”

“I… see.” You murmur, stepping forward to offer Henry your finger when he reaches for it. You smile softly at his little giggles, though you have to pull your finger away when he attempts to put it in his mouth. 

Agent Prentiss gives you a sympathetic smile when you meet her gaze. “Don’t feel too bad. They caught me after I’d had a guy over for my first girl’s day.”

You snicker to yourself and quickly move to tug your curtains open. The plumes of dust that explode off of them fill you with a minute kind of shame that sizzles deep in your stomach. Hopefully no one has a dust allergy. You’re not getting out of this, but at least you’ll have a small reprieve while you get dressed. “I’ll be right back out, I just need to get ready real quick. What are we doing, exactly?”

“Penelope has only mentioned getting you some air fresheners, though I have a feeling that won’t be everything.” Ms. Jareau responds in barely hidden amusement, and you force a snicker in response. You duck into your room with a few more words, promising you won’t take more than 15 minutes. You squish yourself into your closet and shut that door behind you as well, pulling out your phone to call your therapist. 

You feel bad for calling her so early, and you’re glad it goes to voicemail instead of being picked up.

“Hey, I’m so sorry to have to do this, but my…” You hesitate for a moment and lean your forehead against the cool closet wall. “My friends… they surprised me this morning with a day out. I’m sure they would be okay with it if I couldn’t go, but I think I want to? I’ll still pay for today’s session, obviously, but I won’t be able to make it. I’m sorry.” You end the call with a shaky breath, flexing your hands and stepping out of your closet. There’s a hesitant smile blooming on your face.

You dress as quickly as you can, ducking into your bathroom afterwards to wash your face and sift through your lotions. You run a few products through your hair to keep it in place and out of your face, and then you flip your lights off and step back into the living room. Penelope whistles at you, and you can feel your face heating in embarrassment. 

“Look how  _ cute _ you are!!” She exclaims, gesturing for you to do a little spin. You don’t think baggy overalls and a white tank top warrant this kind of a reaction, but you twirl around nonetheless. You glance at the other women in your apartment, and you’re struck by how casual this all is. It’d taken a few months, but these women are your  _ friends. _

You sit down between Emily and JJ on the couch as you slip your shoes on, grinning when Henry starts trying to pull himself into your lap from where he’s sitting on his mother’s beside you. 

“Do you want to hold him?” JJ asks you, and you nod faster than you’d like to admit. She places him in your lap, and you and the baby stare at each other for a long while. You can see Penelope pull her phone out in your peripheral vision, but you don’t try to tell her to stop. All of your attention is on the little boy who stares at you with wide brown eyes.

Henry’s hand plants itself on your cheek with a small slap, and you break into a giant grin. He babbles up at you, little half-words mixing in with his unintelligible noises. You nod in understanding. “That’s insane, little dude. Did that really happen?” He makes more noises, and you gasp. “You’re kidding!” 

Your almost conversation continues for a few minutes until Penelope stops the video she’s taking and stands from your recliner. “No more dilly dallying, ladies. We must be off!” Emily stands to follow her, and you and JJ follow once you’ve given her back her son. He continues to babble at you over her shoulder while she waits for you to lock your door, and you keep up your side of the conversation with ease.

“You’re good with kids.” JJ comments as you strap Henry’s car seat into your SUV. Emily and Penelope agree loudly as they situate in the front seat. You’re all taking your vehicle, but no one will let you drive nor tell you where you’re going. “Have you ever thought about being a mom?”

You consider her question for a while as you all get situated and Emily pulls off. “The HRT didn’t really leave much time for the idea of kids, but I know I’ve always liked them. I don’t know if I’ve ever thought about being a mom, though.”

They all respond in kind, and by the time you’ve arrived at the mall, your conversation has gone through several different topics. A lot of the stores aren’t open yet considering the early hour, so the four of you mill around rather aimlessly. You haven’t been to this mall in nearly a year, and the changes are stunning. Henry, on his part, decides that you are his absolute favorite person at the moment. He rests happily on your hip as you walk around and holds tightly to the only strap of your overalls that’s secured over your shoulder, kicking the metal clasp of the other one each time it swings down by his foot. 

“I’m almost offended that he likes you more than me, Little Bird.” Penelope pouts, though she makes little faces at him anyway. “He’s supposed to be my godson.”

“I wonder if he likes you more than he likes Reid.” Emily comments after a moment, and you tilt your head in contemplation. “He’s his godfather.”

You hum in understanding after she’s clarified, and then you direct your gaze to JJ for her expert judgement. JJ simply laughs to herself, watching Henry with fond eyes. “I’m going to let him make his own decisions.” Is the only wisdom she offers, and you find yourself grinning because of it.

Bath and Body Works finally opens, and you all head inside. It’s a tight fit to get all four of you into the corner that has the air fresheners, but you manage the squeeze and begin passing the different ones around. You’re far more partial to the softer scents, as is Henry -your smelling buddy- but you humor your friends as they pick up more floral and summery ones for you to try. You eventually decide on one and Emily picks up a few of them for you, but Penelope has already moved on to pick out what you’ll plug them into the wall with.

She grabs one with a light-up bee on it, Emily grabs a simple black one for your bedroom, and JJ hands Henry two to choose from. He grabs the one with the rainbow and pushes the blue seahorse away, and you shake your head fondly. Everything about this experience is so incredibly domestic, and even though a small corner of your mind hisses at you for moving on so quickly, you relish in how nice this feels. After six long months of guilt and grief, you don’t feel like you’re committing a crime by just existing. You’re making  _ progress. _

Henry kicks his feet in the universal “put me down’ gesture, and you turn to JJ before you do so. “Can he walk yet?” You ask, interrupting the flowing conversation, and she shakes her head in response. 

“Not on his own, but he can if he has something to hold on to.” She tells you, and you turn him around so he’s facing the direction you’re all going as you set him down. Penelope loudly laments her high heels making it impossible to lean down and walk with him, but she’s already getting her phone out to record you anyway. 

You offer Henry two of your fingers, bent awkwardly sideways, and JJ does the same on his other side. He takes both of your hands with a shrill scream and starts walking forward on his unsteady legs. His little shoes light up with each slam of his tiny feet, and you smile so wide you fear it may split your face. You continue to converse with your friends as you make your way around the mall, stopping every time Henry finds something he wants to touch or smell. Tasting is strictly forbidden, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

After a few more stores and even fewer purchases, you all pile into your SUV to drive to the park where Penelope has planned a picnic for the five of you. She lets you drive this time, claiming that the surprise has already worn off, and you already know where you’re supposed to go. By the time you’ve all finally finished at the park and made it back to your apartment, it’s well past 1:30 and Henry is getting cranky.

“He’s supposed to go down for a nap soon.” JJ explains, and the three of you make noises of understanding. She rocks him while you get his car seat resituated in her car, and then you all wave goodbye as she pulls out of the parking lot and drives home. When you turn back to Emily and Penelope, it’s clear your girl’s day is coming to a close.

Emily leans back against the hood of her car and cocks her head at you. “When do you think Hotch will clear you for the field?” She asks, cringing when Penelope wheezes at her to stop talking. She’s already begun to ask, though, so you wave her on regardless of how the question unsettles you. “You’ve been with the BAU for almost two months now, and from the way Gutierrez talks about you, I figured you’d be on the field within your first week.”

You could tell them. Right here in the parking lot. You don’t think they’ll judge you for it, but you’re also not sure. Your mood sours so rapidly that you get whiplash.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be cleared for the field, honestly. But I trust-” you pause for a split second, stopping before the term ‘Agent’ can come out of your mouth. “Hotch’s judgement.” The nickname tastes weird on your tongue, but you don’t feel like you can call any of them ‘Agent’ anything anymore. You’ve already passed the point of no return. You’re already attached. 

You exchange goodbyes with Penelope and Emily, leaning against your driver side door until they’re out of sight. You drop into a squat and press your face into your hands for a few moments, and you exhale heavily as you try to gather yourself. You hate feeling like this. It’s like a constant rollercoaster, and you never know what’s going to trigger the next drop. There are no breaks to press to stop the ride, and you almost wish you hadn’t cancelled your session with your therapist. 

Your phone chimes with a notification and pulls you from your thoughts. Seven more notifications follow it, all from Penelope. She’s sending you all of the pictures and videos she’d taken today, and watching yourself interact with little Henry lightens your mood the smallest bit. You change your lockscreen to a sweet picture of the five of you huddled on the picnic blanket from your lunch. It makes you smile.

You plug in the air fresheners once you’ve dumped your shoes by the door, and then you splay yourself out on your couch with a sigh. You lie there for a long time, just tracing the lines of the ceiling with your gaze, until your phone buzzes again. It’s a text from your therapist. She tells you that she’s proud of you for going out with your friends, and that she’ll still be at the office today if your plans end earlier than you’d expected. You’re pushing your shoes back onto your feet as quickly as you can, shooting her a response detailing what time you got home and that you can still make your session today.

-

You stop at one of the supermarkets on your way home, getting the pictures from today printed with a permanent smile on your face. Your therapist had been so proud of you when you told her about your day. She’d told you that you were making progress, and you could honestly believe her. It felt so nice to be able to see that you were feeling better. You make small talk with the teenager who’s printing your pictures, snickering when he comments on how pretty you all are. You thank him genuinely when he hands you your pictures, and then you drive the rest of the way home. 

Dinner is a simple affair, but you find small delights in how each part of your meal comes together. It tastes way better than the microwave trash you’d been living off of a few weeks ago. You take a slow shower once you’ve washed your dishes, paying special attention to your hair and skin as a reward of sorts. You’d done so well with letting people in so far, and your therapist had recommended you reinforce it with positive rewards. If you weren’t so proud of yourself, you’d strongly consider the fact that you were treating yourself like a dog in training.

You plug your phone in with a grin, uncaring of how early it still is in the day. You’re exhausted, both physically and socially, and your bed is calling your name. You finish taking care of your hair and skin before you bury yourself in yet another large shirt, forgoing bottoms in the anticipation of your sheets rubbing over your freshly shaved legs. They’re soft as they cradle you, and you sigh in content as you burrow into them. You’d gotten everything done that you needed to, and you fall asleep with a sigh of content.

It’s only hours later, once you’ve woken yourself with your screams, that you realize you forgot to turn the thermostat back down again. You can’t even remember what this nightmare had been about, but your body’s visceral reaction leads you to believe it was one of your more awful ones. You choke on your sobs once again, and this time the breathing exercises aren’t working. Your sobbing turns to hyperventilation before you can really get a handle on it, and you barely make it to the bathroom before you throw up everything you’d eaten before you’d gone to bed.

You weep quietly for a while longer, but eventually you calm down enough to brush the taste of bile-flavored spaghetti out of your mouth. You stumble out into the living room and glance at the clock on the stove, your cheek twitching at the blaring green  **2:13** on the display. You’re just reaching for the thermostat when there’s a soft knock on your door, and you freeze as a sharp jolt of fear rolls up your spine. 

The knock comes again, a little more urgently, and you fumble with the doorknob before you tug the door open. Standing there, bathed in the orange light of the hallway, is Spencer.

He stares down at you for a few moments before stepping forward hesitantly and wrapping you in an awkward hug. Your body shakes of its own accord, and you press yourself against him as your tears start up again. The two of you stumble awkwardly into your apartment and he shuts the door behind you both, flipping the deadbolt and then trying to maneuver you both to the couch. You’re sure it’s not easy, especially with you clinging to him the way you are, but you also don’t care. Everything  _ hurts. _

Spencer pulls you between his legs once he’s finally managed to navigate the both of you onto your couch. He sinks back against the armrest and tucks your head into his chest as you continue to sob, making odd little shushing noises as he rubs your back.

It takes you longer than you thought it would to calm down enough to think straight, but once you do, your cheeks burn with shame. Spencer’s t-shirt is soaked with your snot and tears, and you’re pressed unneededly close to a man you know isn’t the biggest fan of physical contact. He mutters your name as a question, and you nod against his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper quietly, and a few smaller tears fueled by your shame drip down your cheeks. If you’re not careful, you’ll start right back up where you left off mere moments ago. You don’t want to subject him to more of this.

“You don’t have to apologize.” Spencer responds lightly, his large hand rubbing gently where it rests on your shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You shake your head quickly, though the movement jostles the headache you’d developed from crying as hard as you had. “But I know you don’t like being touched, and I ruined your shirt, and I probably woke you up. I’ve probably woken you up a bunch of times.” You can feel the way he shakes his head before he verbalizes his disagreement.

“You’re my friend. It doesn’t bother me being touched by you.” You snicker despite yourself at the vague bashfulness you can hear in his voice. “Hugging and being hugged can actually combat cortisol, which is a stress hormone. And the shirt can be washed.” He stops for a moment to readjust you both further down the couch before he continues. “I was already awake, anyway. Do you want to talk about it?”

Not really, you don’t. Your tears swell over your eyelids again despite your best efforts to keep them away, and Spencer goes back to trying to soothe you when your shoulders begin to shake. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.” Spencer whispers into your hair, and you tuck yourself closer to him in response. You try your best to match your breathing to his in an effort to calm yourself down. It’s been so long since you’ve been held. Sure, Penelope hugs you, but they’re quick things. You come to the crippling realization that this is the first time you’ve truly been held since the middle of February, and it’s the end of August now. That fact alone has you clinging to Spencer ever tighter.

It takes a long time, but eventually your tears slow to a stop yet again. You don’t remove yourself from him yet, and when he simply keeps drawing gentle patterns into your shoulder and back instead of pushing you off of him, you don’t feel as guilty for staying there. Today has been such a long day; you still don’t even know what your dream had been about. 

Spencer’s fingers slow to a stop in their ministrations, his arms growing heavy where they’re wrapped around you as his breathing slows. Had you not spent such a long time sharing a bed with Three and Seven, you wouldn’t have been able to recognize the telltale signs of sleep claiming someone. You don’t stop the watery smile that spreads across your face, even if it’s slightly shadowed by the guilt of keeping him for so long that he’d fallen asleep on your couch. 

Removing yourself from him so he can sleep proves to be an awkward affair, but your years of gymnastics and skirting around lovers who slept lighter than feathers makes it doable. You grab one of your blankets and drop it on top of him, taking a seat on the coffee table to study him for a moment.

You are so incredibly grateful for the people on this team. You hope Hotch never lets you into the field- hope that you’re never given the chance to mess up and get them killed. They have all been so kind and patient with you, pulling you gently from your comfort zones and teaching you how to breathe again. They probably didn’t even know what they were doing. Well, Hotch does, and you have a feeling Rossi may as well, but you hadn’t said anything to anyone. They were all just good,  _ genuine  _ people, and it makes your heart ache and soar all at once. 

Staring is weird, you remind yourself, and the last thing you want is Spencer to wake up to you watching him like some vulture perched on your coffee table. You move to the recliner and curl into it, pulling one of your unfinished books from the side table nearest you to keep you occupied and wrapping yourself in another blanket. You still feel guilty and a little ashamed, but a larger part of you is simply relieved. 

You have friends again. Nice friends who invite you out to do things and check on you when you’re not feeling okay. They won’t ever replace your team, but that had never been their purpose anyway. A new team didn’t mean you had to forget your old one.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's your first real case! Nothing can go wrong when you have your team by your side.
> 
> Speaking of which, where is Hotch?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha early update bc im an impatient lil bitch.  
> this will probably be the only chapter that sort of follows an episode of the show. i forgot how much i hate pausing, copying dialogue, and then repeating. this is also the last time Time Itself makes any sense, by the way. this show is big awful about keeping a linear timeline. 
> 
> one last question before we begin: are we looking for a lot of angst in this, or a quick happy ending? i have both prepared, but i want to know the general feel from yall. thats all ily

Hotch informs you that you’re officially cleared for the field over a phone call when the team returns from Canada.

You spend the next four hours alternating between shaking, sobbing, and vomiting, but you’re forced to pull yourself together when a text comes through from JJ saying you have a case. She sends you the address, offers her congratulations, and then apologizes for the likely irritability of the team. You feel bad for them, running on such a small amount of sleep is never fun. You’re grateful that you’ve gotten used to it by now. 

You’ve just locked your door when Spencer comes down the stairs, and you offer him a sympathetic smile. He does his best to grin back at you as he descends the rest of the stairs and stops at your side.

“Happy first day in the field.” He smiles, and you cringe. He sounds exhausted.

“Thanks.” You mutter back, and the two of you head to your car. You hold the door of your building open for him and then shut it softly behind you both. “I wish it could have waited, though. At least for your guys’ sake.”

You wish it could have waited for your sake as well, but some small part of you knew you’d end up in the field at some point. You just wished it’d been much later rather than sooner. 

“You know what they say, ‘No rest for the wicked’.” Spencer responds tiredly, reclining your passenger’s seat back and slouching into it. He dozes off not long after you’ve pulled onto the highway, and you keep the volume of your phone’s gps down in order to let him get as much rest as he can. It takes nearly an hour to get to the scene from your building, and you rouse Spencer when you’re a few minutes out. Everything spirals from there. 

The last thing you expected of your first case in the field was to be guarding one of the side entrances of a high school with your clearly exhausted teammates for an entire school day. The children flock to you with each class change, some asking you questions about the locked doors, or the casual way you’re dressed, and a few of the older boys even make small attempts to flirt with you. Your heart rate never once calms in your chest, regardless of the casual demeanor you project.

You remember being 15. That was the year you got outed to your school and parents, and as a result, the entirety of your small town. That was the year your parents kicked you out. You sold drugs to make money, and you spent the rest of your high school career running from the cops. You enlisted with the FBI as soon as you were able; the rest is history. But you also remember the smaller parts of being 15: the need to be liked, the insecurity that you weren’t doing enough. Jeffery is a noble little boy, even if he’d possibly endangered more kids as a result. You were proud of him, regardless. 

“Have you cross checked all of the records of the employees in the building against Dr. Barton?” Rossi asks JJ in the small circle you’re gathered in. Even in your huddle, you have eyes on each exit.

“Garcia’s on it.” She replies quietly, and you offer her a reassuring smile. There hasn’t been much conversation today outside of the necessity, and even though you know it’s just because they’re all exhausted, it makes you anxious. A small part of you irrationally believes that the pop up of another case is all because Hotch cleared you, and none of this would have happened if you hadn’t come back to work.

That doesn’t make any sense, though, so you nod to them both as you move back to your position near your exit door for the next class change. The bell rings and teenagers flood the hall from every angle.

You spot Jeffrey pushing through the crowd of students and making a beeline for the door you’re standing near. The panic on his face is as clear as day, and you glide calmly into his path to intercept him. His gaze snaps to your hand on his arm before jumping to your face, and when it stops there, you offer him the most soothing smile you can muster.

“Excuse me.” You say, and you watch his expression come back into focus. “I’m supposed to meet with Principal Findlay. Can you tell me where her office is?”

He exhales heavily, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as his shoulders sag. You follow his gaze when he glances over his shoulder, and you find Morgan at the end of the hall.

“We’ve got you.” You tell him quietly. You take your hand from his arm and usher him off to his next class before resuming your position near the lockers. Morgan catches your eyes over the heads of the students, and you offer him a minute smile. You’ve got this.

When it comes time for the kids to go home, you sit just behind JJ and Jeffrey on the stairs. Morgan and Rossi are outside directing the kids onto their buses. JJ is doing her best to be encouraging and sweet from her place beside Jeffrey, offering him gentle reassurances each time he glances fretfully at her. You remain vigilant from your place a few steps above them, eyes roving over each face in the crowd. Faces have always been something you were good at, and you _never_ forget a face. You’ll recognize someone that isn’t supposed to be there the second they set foot in your line of sight. 

Except there’s no time to recognize anyone. Emily calls you to tell you the unsub is at Dr. Barton’s house and shots have been fired, and that you all need to get there as soon as you can. You and JJ sprint toward the government issued SUV with Jeffrey at your heels, Morgan and Rossi jumping into a separate vehicle closer to them and hitting the road. You pull out into traffic behind them, flipping your sirens on and stepping on the gas.

“Is my dad okay?” Jeffrey asks from his place in the backseat, and you can hear the tears in his throat. JJ reaches back and takes his hand, smiling at him in reassurance. 

“Dr. Reid will keep him safe.” She tells him, and even though there’s the chance his dad isn’t okay, you both have complete faith in Spencer. He would have figured it out and prevented it before it could happen. Even tired, you know his brain is an incredible tool.

There’s an ambulance and a plethora of cop cars in the street when you pull onto it, and you make JJ describe what she sees to you while you focus on navigating around them and pulling in behind Morgan.

“Unsub’s down, looks like Reid is hit, but Dr. Barton is fine.” She informs you, and the three of you are unbuckling your seatbelts the second you’ve put the SUV in park. You dart around the hood and keep pace with JJ and Morgan, the three of you crouching around Spencer with an almost suffocating air of concern.

“You okay?” JJ breathes, lifting his hand from his knee for just a moment to look at it. You whistle low when you see the hole in Spencer’s knee, but your shoulders relax when you realize it isn’t life threatening.

“Yeah, fine.” Spencer sounds rushed in his response, and your shoulders hike right back up where they were. “You need to find Emily. Call Emily.”

You and Rossi ask where she is at the same time, and you can feel your heart rate spike up yet again. 

The look Spencer pins you all with is only vaguely shaded with panic, and you’re sure you all look the same. “Something’s happened to Hotch.” 

-

The team leaves you in Hotch’s room. You wish they hadn’t, but you are the most awake, and therefore the most capable of keeping Hotch safe should Foyet come back for him. Both of you had been against it, but Hotch had fallen unconscious again before he could help you argue your point. The others have authority over you, at least in terms of experience, so you stayed. 

Your first case, your first day in the field, and your Unit Chief is in the hospital with nine stab wounds. You’re sitting here with him, useless and afraid, while the rest of the team goes to secure his ex-wife and son. 

Two had described to you once, in one of her few moments of complete openness, her belief in the butterfly effect. That one little thing somewhere would cause something gigantic somewhere else. It’s the reason she always weighed her actions before she made them, why she wouldn’t offer her opinion unless she truly deemed it necessary. You’d never believed her before, not one for superstition, but now you’re not so sure. 

You were the last person Hotch called. His last call, most likely mere moments before Foyet had taken him, had been to tell you that you were cleared for the field. That he had observed enough of your training with Morgan to physically pass you, and that he’d gotten your psych evaluation from your therapist. The last thing he’d done before he’d been _stabbed_ and _kidnapped_ was call _you_. 

Maybe you were a bad omen. Maybe that was why bad things always happened when you were involved. 

Hotch’s heart rate spikes suddenly, and you press the button for a nurse as you climb to your feet. He’s not conscious, but you try soothing him with your words anyway. 

“You’re in the hospital Hotch, you’re okay.” You whisper, hands beginning to shake as the smallest throes of panic sink into your veins. “The team is going for Jack and Haley, they’ll be safe, too. I promise.” It doesn’t do much, but his heart rate stops climbing. That’s something. 

“What happened?” The doctor demands when she enters the room, and you turn your gaze on her for only a moment. “Agent Hotcher. Can you hear me? Agent Hotchner?”

His eyes are hazy when he opens them, but you breathe a small sigh of relief. “I’m okay.” He says to you, repeating your words back to you, and you nod. You leave when the doctor asks that of you, moving down the hallway to lean against the wall and peer in through the glass. Every nerve is on fire, and you’ve bitten your bottom lip enough that it’s bleeding in multiple places. The irony tang grounds you in the moment, and you force yourself to try and relax. 

Your phone rings after a long time of simply loitering in the hallway, and when you pick it up, the sound of Rossi’s voice grounds you even more. “They’re safe.” You tell Hotch, and you hang up the phone at his sigh of relief. You move back into the room and sit in the chair beside his bed again, leaning forward on your knees and sighing for what feels like the millionth time.

“Tell me about your team.” Hotch says out of nowhere, and your spine snaps ramrod straight. You stare at him with raised eyebrows, and he stares right back. “I’ve read their files, but I want to know what they were like.”

You wet your bottom lip with a pass of your tongue, searching your head for something to say. You haven’t talked about your team with anyone, not since they died. You hadn’t even been able to give eulogies at their funerals. 

“Pick a number one through seven.” You finally decide, and the smile he gives you is small, but it’s there.

“Four.”

You snort despite yourself. “Rafael Hatano. He had just turned 30 when I joined the team, and he was _relentless_ in his teasing. The absolute worst. He tried every classic prank in the book as some kind of way to haze me, but they were mostly harmless. He shot me once, completely by accident, and he cried about it for the next two days. He also really wanted to be a dad. I think he used me as some kind of surrogate kid, if I’m being honest.” 

Hotch goes to speak again, but you cut him off when you remember something else. “Oh! He also drove race cars, like, a lot. I could probably get tickets to a show for you and Jack. If Jack likes cars, that is. I don’t know what he’s into.” 

Your words fizzle out as you realize you’d jumped the gun in your excitement. The smile Hotch gives you, while small, is still warm. “He’d like that.” He tells you quietly, and you grin down at your hands. Your phone screen lights up in your lap, and you stand quickly. 

“Haley’s coming up.” You tell him, and not long after the words have left your lips, you’re passing her in the doorway. You’ve never met her before, but you offer her a kind smile and remove yourself from the room. You wander the halls for a while, texting back and forth with Penelope as you go. Eventually you wind up at a window overlooking the front of the hospital, where Morgan and Emily join you. 

None of you speak. There’s a certain heaviness in the air, one you don’t have the energy to try and decipher.

“I just talked to Spence.” JJ says when she approaches the three of you, slotting herself between you and Emily. “He’s gonna have to be on crutches for a while, but he said kicking down doors is Morgan’s job anyway.”

You and Emily laugh, but Morgan’s gaze is lost somewhere out the window. His forehead is wrinkled, and you worry his face may get stuck like that.

“You know, Foyet having your credentials had nothing to do with any of this. It was just his way of trying to torture you.” Emily reminds him, and you nod along with her words. You’d read a lot about Foyet, and you decided you hated the man from the get-go. There is something wrong with men like him. In some ways, he reminds you of the men who killed your team, and that makes you hate him even more. 

You all disperse with a few more words, and then you’re on your way back to base. You fill out your after-case report and then relocate your SUV -which they did _not_ put back in your parking spot- so you can go home. There’s no music this time, but there are no thoughts in your head, either. It’s only when your vision blurs that you realize you’re crying. You pull into your parking spot at the apartment building and slide your chair back away from the steering wheel, giving you enough space to tug your legs up into the seat with you. You press your eyes into your knees, and you weep.

This was something you knew would come for you. The tidal wave of emotions was going to take you down one way or another, and you knew it was only a matter of time. Setting foot on the field without your team was always going to damage you. You cry a lot these days, you notice. Waking up in tears was one thing, and you usually worked through those bursts and locked them away in under 10 minutes. The time with Spencer had been worse, and you’d cried for nearly an hour, but that still hadn’t been all of it. You’d gone back to your therapist and requested another refill for your sleeping medicine after that, and once you’d told her about the magnitude of the nightmares, she’d doubled the dosage. 

You had to set your alarm to the loudest setting now, along with your team’s ringtones, but you didn’t have to worry about the thermostat anymore. You didn’t have to worry about bothering Spencer anymore. 

Those times had been nothing like the meltdown you could feel coming, though. It felt like it always sat just between your shoulder blades, in that one spot you couldn’t scratch no matter which way you reached. It squeezed your lungs and throat from behind. You could always feel it pushing at you, shoving its way to the surface time and time again. It was waiting, and someday it would-

There’s a knock on your car window.

You’re grateful for your tinted windows as you hurriedly wipe the tears and snot from your face on the inside of your shirt, checking your eyes in the mirror. They’re puffy and a little red-rimmed, but it’s passable as just being tired. You roll down the window and throw an easy grin at Spencer when he comes into view.

“If it isn’t my favorite skinny white boy.” You tease, and you take in the crutches and the bandages all over his knee. “How’d you get here, hmm?”

“Cab.” He tells you happily, and he shuffles back on his crutches a little bit to let you get out of your car. He’s holding himself awkwardly, likely still adjusting, and it only makes your grin widen.

“You told JJ you were doing that?” You ask, and you grin at the utter panic that takes over his face. He hobbles over until he can lean on the side of your car and pulls his phone out, flipping it open to dial JJ’s number.

You gather your things from the trunk, laughing as you hear her scold him through the phone. There’s a pause, and then Spencer is handing his little flip phone to you. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Need me to beat him up for you?” You say into the phone, grinning at Spencer when he scoffs.

“Absolutely. Go for the knee, he’s already crippled.” JJ responds, completely serious, and you snort. “No, but I do need a favor. You live on the first floor, correct?”

You already know where this is going. 

“Yes ma’am.”

“Spencer lives on the second floor.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He’s on crutches right now, and he probably shouldn’t be walking up all those stairs.”

You’re already planning out how you’re going to get him situated in your apartment. He’d get the bed, because the last thing you’re going to do is make an injured man sleep on your couch. Plus, you like your couch. It’s very nice. “That is a true statement.”

JJ sighs your name in exasperation, and you laugh to yourself. “I get the message, JJ, loud and clear. But it’s up to him.”

“What’s up to me?” Spencer asks you, but you stick your tongue out instead of answering him.

“Thank you, honestly.” JJ responds. “I’d offer to let him stay with me, but all of the bedrooms are upstairs and I don’t want to stick him on the couch.”

“I totally get it. I’ll talk to you later, alright? Say hi to my best friend for me.” Henry squeals in the background, and your face splits into a soft grin. “Hello, my darling love! I miss you so much!”

JJ laughs at you, and after a few more words, you hang up. You pass the phone back to Spencer, a dopey grin still on your face, and you snicker at the look he gives you. 

“Your darling love?” He quotes, and you nod enthusiastically.

“Henry is my best friend in the entire world, and I love him with my whole heart.” You keep pace with Spencer as you walk toward the building, tugging the door open for him when you reach the entrance. “Now then, JJ suggested it, and I think it may honestly be a good idea. Do you want to stay with me until your leg isn’t as... rooty-tooty point-n-shootied? Walking up and down those stairs isn’t going to be good for you right now.”

He hesitates, most likely because of your choice of words, before he shakes his head no. “I’ll be okay, but thank you for offering.”

You lean against your door as you watch him hobble to the stairs, and you raise your eyebrows when he makes no move to go up them. “Spencer?”

“No, no. I’ve got it, just give me a second.”

A smile is blooming on your face as you watch him look from his feet to the top of the stairs and back again. When he turns to you, face red, you refrain from laughing. “What do you want for dinner? I can make most anything.”

You know that after you’ve made him dinner, you’re going to have to argue about where he’s going to sleep. Even if you have to carry him to the bed, he will sleep in it. Your apartment, your rules. This could be fun, like some kind of sleepover you’d have had when you were a child, even if watching him settle onto your couch fills you with the smallest bit of dread. 

At least he wouldn’t kill himself trying to walk up the stairs this way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer stays with you for three months, and who knew it would be such a pleasant experience? It's nice not having to live alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternatively: "And They Were Roommates"

Spencer falls asleep not long after he’s settled onto your couch, head thrown back and breathing loudly. You move quietly through dinner prep, a simple thing that would be quick to make without tasting too bland. You changed the sheets on your bed while it cooked, collecting extra blankets and pillows from your closet to set up a little brace for Spencer’s leg. He jolts awake when the oven beeps, and he looks almost like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“You know that’s not the first time you’ve slept on my couch, right?” You tease him as you make plates for the both of you. He shrugs, thanking you bashfully when you hand him his plate.

“This is really good.” He responds instead. He eats a lot faster than he probably should considering he’d just gotten out of surgery maybe a few hours ago- he won’t tell you how he managed to get let out of the hospital so early, and you’re positive they should have kept him for overnight observation at the very least. 

You laugh anyway, curling up at the opposite end of the couch from him. “Thank you. Five made it his life’s goal to teach me how to cook after I somehow ruined pancakes, and I think he did a pretty good job.”

Spencer finishes the bite he was chewing and tilts his head at you. “Five? Is that like a nickname or something?”

“Yeah.” You respond lightly, ignoring the sudden racing of your heart. “He’s a member of my old team. His actual name was Arian.”

“You don’t talk about your old team very much.” Spencer points out, and he glances around your lamp lit living room, likely looking for photos.

You stand up and take your plate into the kitchen, rinsing it in the sink and setting it down in the bottom. You’ll wash it tomorrow. “I miss them, and talking about them makes me miss them more. It’s easier not to.” You look up from the sink to face him and pretend you don’t see the look he’s giving you. “Do you need me to run up to your apartment and grab you anything? I could probably move furniture down here, if you need it.”

He sputters, his face burning as you come to take his plate and rinse it as well. “You don’t need to do that.” He tries, but you wave it away.

“Spencer, my friend, you were shot less than twelve hours ago. You shouldn’t even be out of the hospital yet.” He has the decency to look embarrassed. “What do you need? Shampoo? You better have conditioner with how long you keep your hair. Toothbrush? Clothes?”

“You’re giving JJ a run for her money on the mothering front.” Spencer teases, once more trying to subtly redirect, but you simply cock an eyebrow and cross your arms. “Yes, alright, yes. I need those things.”

You pin him with a thankful smile, grabbing his keys off the counter and moving to your door. “You don’t have anything you don’t want me to see, do you?”

“I-” His face burns scarlett, and you stifle a loud laugh into your fist. 

“I’ll stop teasing you, hun. I’ll be back in a second.”

You’ve been in Spencer’s apartment only once before this, and that’d been when JJ had asked you to watch Henry. It’d been too early in the day for her to call Penelope or Spencer, so she’d called you instead. You’d been at Spencer’s door as soon as you could hear him walking around, a happy baby on your hip. That’s where you’d spent the rest of your day, and it was the reason you knew your way around the place with ease.

You pull Spencer’s dresser drawers from their places, ducking into his bathroom to collect the things he’ll need. There’s a certain awkwardness in going through your friend’s things, but considering he shouldn’t even be hobbling around right now, you don’t have time to think too hard about it. You don’t even bother with his stupid 2-in-1 shampoo, but you toss his toothbrush and toothpaste into one of the three drawers you’ve stacked. You carry them out of his apartment and back down the stairs, snickering at his look of surprise.

“Don’t look at me like that. You and I both know JJ isn’t going to let you out of my apartment until you’re healed enough to take the stairs on your own.”

“This isn’t even her apartment!” Spencer half-shouts, and you snicker even more. He grows more frantic when you walk his drawers into your bedroom. “Wait, where are you going? What are you doing?”

You don’t answer him, smiling cheekily as you jog back out the door. You grab his dresser next, grateful it’s not the biggest one you’d ever seen, and hoist it up against your front. You have to waddle and take the stairs sideways, but you make it down with relative ease. Spencer’s jaw drops at the sight of you.

“You didn’t have to do that!” He sputters, gesturing wildly at you, and your grin grows.

“What? Do you want me to carry everything back upstairs now?”

“Yes! No! How are you lifting that by yourself?”

You laugh as you set the dresser in your room, situating it between your bathroom and closet doors. You put his drawers back where they’re supposed to go and deposit his toothbrush and paste on your bathroom counter before you head back into the living room. Spencer is still watching you in mild awe.

“I spend a lot of my free time in the gym. My previous team leader made one of his requirements that I could carry him, and I could.” Your soft look turns withering, and you have to force yourself not to grin when his face falls. “Now would you like to tell me why you have fucking 2-in-1 shampoo?”

Spencer cringes, and you laugh. “I can explain.”

-

Your first week living together goes as well as you could have hoped. JJ grounds Spencer to your apartment, to which he protests profusely, but you second her decision. His retaliation is to call one or both of you at least once every hour, only stopping when you’re called off on cases. You bring more of his books down each time you come back to the apartment, and you have cable installed a few days later. 

He spends most of that first week sleeping, even if he argues with you every time you lay yourself out on the couch. He complains when you make him go to bed, and he won’t close the bedroom door in case you have to use the bathroom at any point in the night. He sleeps through you getting ready when you have to leave for work in the morning, regardless of how much noise you make or how many lights you turn on. It’s like having a roommate.

JJ and Will visit as often as they can during the months Spencer is living with you. You’d been shocked at first, the tiniest bit overwhelmed, but you fell into it quickly. Once you’d deemed Spencer good to walk, you’d taken him with you to the store and you’d bought a plethora of baby items for Henry so JJ and Will wouldn’t have to pack their stuff up anymore. The two of you end up watching him every now and then so JJ and Will can have a date day or take a morning off.

You get home from therapy on one of the days you and Spencer had offered to watch Henry, and you’re suddenly floored by the picture before you. 

You’d never seriously considered kids. Being in a relationship with two people who both shared your occupation didn’t leave much room for you to do that. There were a few pregnancy scares for both you and Three, and the three of you had sat down each time and genuinely discussed if you could handle being parents. Nothing had ever come of it, but it had never been something you thought you’d want.

Now, though, staring down at Spencer and Henry napping on the couch in your living room, you feel slightly overwhelmed. Your maternal instincts are screaming at you, and you can feel the heat climbing into your cheeks. 

This had always been how it was. Tears swell in your eyes and you slip wordlessly into the bedroom, shutting that door and then closing yourself in the bathroom as well. You lean heavily on the sink and exhale harshly, staring down the drain into the darkness of the pipes. This had _always_ been how it was. This is how it’d started with Three, and then again with Seven. Just one small thing, one stray brush of sunlight on skin, one particular laugh in the air, and you were done for. You’d always fallen too fast.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It hadn’t been long enough- Three and Seven had _just_ died. The prospect of you catching feelings wasn’t fair to them. They’d loved you for so long, almost the entire time you’d been on the team, and you just throw it away like this? Your traitor heart replaces them after less than a year of them being dead?

It’s not fair. Not to them, and not to you.

You collect yourself as best you can, wiping the stray tears from your eyes and blowing your nose. You change into comfier clothing before you go back out into the living room, and when you do, Spencer is just sitting up.

“Hey,” he whispers, “when did you get home?”

Ha. He’d called it home.

“A few minutes ago. I wanted to change and you two were sleeping.” You avoid his gaze as you answer. You don’t want him to read the shame on your face.

“You in the mood to change a diaper?” He asks you, and Henry begins to fuss where Spencer’s holding him out to you.

You snort despite yourself, grabbing a new diaper and the wipes before moving over to take the baby. “Not really, no.”

-

Three months, Spencer has been living with you.

You’ve disputed over a few things, though they’re never major. You spend almost all of your time together, getting stuck in hotel rooms on cases or next to each other on the jet, and then you drive him back to your apartment once the case is over. The only times you’re without each other are when Morgan sends you out to crime scenes or to interview people, or when you have therapy or go to the gym. You’re not even alone when he’s asleep in the other room, insistent on keeping the door open just in case. You’ve told him he sleeps too heavily to notice the door opening or closing, but he disagrees with you every time. 

Spencer could honestly go back to his own apartment now, considering how quickly he’s healing, but neither of you have brought it up. You don’t know why.

This last case had been bad. There’d been so many children involved, and the team was so drained. Morgan had dismissed you all, and after exchanging a few hugs, you and Spencer had climbed into your SUV and driven home. Dinner had been leftovers, and you’d taken your medication and laid down not long after. Your whole body ached, from the soles of your feet to the very tips of your fingers, even the roots of your hair. This had been one of the worst cases you’d worked so far. 

You can hear the shower shut off somewhere in your sleepy haze, and not long after, the door to your bedroom opens. You don’t try to pick your head up from where it’s tucked between your pillow and the back of the couch, even when you hear Spencer come over with the gentle click of his crutch.

He calls your name softly, and you can feel the couch move a small bit when he leans on it. One of his hands comes down to shake your shoulder in another attempt to get your attention.

“I’m up, Spence.” You murmur, pushing up on your arm to stare at him through the dark. The glow of your light up air fresheners is enough to see the barest hints of his face. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I was just- do you want to sleep in your own bed tonight?”

Your brain is fuzzy with medication, so it takes you a moment to process his words. He stands before you, somehow unsure and completely sure at the same time. “I’m sorry?”

“Your bed is big enough for both of us.” Spencer explains. “You’ve been sleeping on your couch for the last three months, that isn’t fair to you.”

He doesn’t offer to go home. He wants to share your bed with you. You’ve seen the way he sleeps, the man clutches anything he can get his hands on. If you agree, there’s a good chance you’ll wake tied up in his arms. 

But god, you miss your bed.

“That’d be nice.” You finally manage to get out, and you push yourself off of the couch with slightly unsteady feet. This is the only thing you hate about the medication you have to take; it robs you of a lot of your balance once you’ve finally started to fall asleep. It’s why you try not to move after you’ve taken it and lied down.

You throw your nest of pillows from the couch into the far corner of the bed, climbing under the covers closest to the wall. You breathe a sigh of relief the second you press your forehead to the cool wall, and you can feel your entire body relax. Spencer climbs into the other side of the bed, shuffling around with the covers and clacking his crutch around as he tries to get everything adjusted. Eventually he settles, and you sink even further into the hazy pulls of sleep.

“Goodnight.” Spencer whispers to you, but your mouth isn’t working anymore. You manage a hum in the back of your throat before you fall under completely, and the inky blackness is a welcome reprieve from the events of the day. You can feel Spencer reach out to touch you, two fingers between your shoulder blades to reassure him you’re there, and then nothing. Sleep.

It’s dark when you wake up again, but judging by the sliver of light that runs across your ceiling from where it peeks through the top of your curtain, you’d slept a decent amount. Certainly enough to get up, but you’re currently kind of trapped. 

You’re not sure when it’d happened, but just as you’d assumed, Spencer had forgone the pillow he usually clutches and moved onto you. He’s pressed directly against your back, his left arm wrapped entirely around your middle. You can feel his fingers stuck between your side and the mattress under you. Spencer’s braced leg rests uncomfortably between your own, and you breathe a heavy sigh.

This isn’t the first time you’d shared a bed with him -the two of you got stuck with a room that had falsely implied two beds- so you knew what was coming. You’d been thoroughly wrapped up in him the last time, too. This time it’s going to be a little more difficult to extract yourself from him, considering you’re pressed between the wall and his chest. It’s a safe little place, but you don’t see yourself getting out of it without waking him up.

Your best bet is to wait, you suppose. He’ll pull away when he wakes up, and you can pretend you’re still sleeping until he leaves the room or goes into the bathroom, and you’ll just act like it never happened. That’s what you’d done the last time, but he hadn’t been awake to see you in his arms.

It takes.... a while before Spencer finally does begin to stir. You’d long since grown bored of lying there, and you’d started running your finger along the wall while you waited. You stopped your counting of the divots in the paint, slowing your breathing down and relaxing your limbs the best you could. 

Spencer’s fingers twitch under you first, curling in to grip the meat of your waist. He’s in the middle of flexing his limbs in an attempt to rouse himself when he freezes, and you can hear the sharp intake of breath that means he’s realized he’s holding you. He doesn’t breathe for a moment, likely taking stock of the situation and running through each possible scenario that could get him out of this without waking you.

He takes his leg from between yours first, and he pulls his hand out from under you to rest limply against your stomach, but he stays still after that. You wonder if he’s waiting to see if you’ll wake up, maybe giving you a moment to readjust to the minute absences. But then he’s leaning up and over you, his right arm propping him up while his left hand moves to your face. Spencer traces the curve of your jaw with light knuckles, his fingers coming to rest near your ear where he sets them on your hair. You can feel him lean further over you and-

His lips make contact with your temple. Shock gathers in your throat, and it takes all of your effort to push the burning sensation behind your eyes away as you continue to feign sleep. Spencer removes himself from you the rest of the way and slides to the other side of the bed, and a few moments later you can hear him close the bathroom door. The shower turns on not long after, and you fling yourself from the bed the moment you hear water hit skin. 

Spencer _likes_ you. Romantically. 

Your temple still tingles where he’d kissed you. You can feel the phantom caress of his fingers along your jaw, and your entire body burns with shame. You aren’t _allowed_ to like him. Three’s grave is still fresh, Seven’s fresher still. It’s not fair to them. You feel like some kind of cheater.

You grab a pair of yoga pants from your closet in your haste, snagging a sports bra and a pair of socks as you go. You change in the kitchen and write a quick note for Spencer, telling him you’d gone for a run, before you bolt. It’s a miracle you remember to lock the door behind you, but you do, and then you’re throwing yourself behind the wheel of your car and pulling off. A toxic mix of panic and shame roil around inside of you. When you make it to the park, you lock your car, and you run.

A lot of your run this morning consisted of straight sprinting, and you’re regretting it as you try to catch your breath near the parking lot. Your lungs are on fire, but the panic from earlier has worn off. You’re still riddled with shame, but that’s something to deal with when you see your therapist this coming Saturday. You hope no case gets in the way.

Spencer is attempting to make something in the kitchen when you get back, and the smile he gives you makes your heart pick up speed against your will. “How was your run?” He asks conversationally, tossing you a water bottle out of the fridge. You chug it in one go before you answer, leaning against the counter with a sigh.

“It was nice. I’m glad it’s started getting cooler: I can actually run outside again.”

He hums in response, reaching up into the cabinet above him to grab the spices you’d told him to use with this specific dish. It doesn’t look exactly right, but it also doesn’t look like he’d torched it, which was good. He’s in the process of dividing it onto two plates when both of your phones buzz, and you both make varying noises of unhappiness.

“No rest for the wicked.” You tell him, already typing out a reply on your phone. He grumbles as he transfers your breakfast into two tupperware containers, dropping a fork into each one.

“Aren’t we the good guys, though?”

-

You wait a week before you make mention to Spencer that he should be healed enough to move back into his own apartment. You do your best to ignore the crestfallen look he tries to hide, and you smile gently at him when he hesitantly agrees. He’s moved back into his own apartment before the night is over.

Your sheets still smell like him, though. Your pillows seemingly seeped in the shampoo and conditioner you’d gotten him for his hair. There are a few days where you make the excuse that you’re too busy to take them to the laundromat, but when a picture of you squished between Three and Seven drops from one of the books you were moving, you find the time to wash them. The guilt of liking Spencer is slowly eating you alive, made ever worse by the fact that he actually likes you back. Your nightmares start up even worse than before, and not even your medication can keep them away.

Spencer doesn’t mention anything about how he feels about you, so you assume you’re still doing a decent job of hiding it. You treat him the same as you always have, and he you. You see JJ give you looks every now and then, and you can hear them whispering on the jet when they think you’re asleep. She’s Spencer’s best friend, so you can only assume he’s told her about his little crush on you. Her not so casual comments about whether or not you have a special someone in your life aren’t helping.

Your therapist thinks you’re getting better, but you’re not sure. You’re actively withholding information from her now- more than you had before. You make sure not to say anything too worrying, the last thing you want is for any of your not so great thoughts to get back to Morgan. You know your friend is uncomfortable having to read over your mental health reports, so you keep them as innocent as possible. A couple nightmares here and there, some residual survivor’s guilt, but otherwise you’re fine.

Spencer’s feelings for you aren’t deemed important enough to make it into your file. Your therapist is far more concerned with how you’re handling the approaching holiday season. This will be your first one without your team, and she wants to make sure you’re okay.

You’re not, obviously. With Spencer back in his own apartment, you have a lot more time to overthink. You waste away inside your own head, but your fear of burdening Morgan leads you to tell your therapist that even though you’re uncertain about spending the holidays alone, you have your new team. They’ll keep you grounded. 

You contemplate telling someone, maybe Rossi, about your team. You know he served, and you know he knows what it’s like to lose someone. He may be your best bet on advice.

But then Haley dies, and Hotch goes on leave.

You won’t burden anyone with your problems. They all have enough going on, anyway. It’s better this way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a lil note: reader was actually in a polyamorous relationship with three and seven!! i know i dont explicitly state it anywhere so i figured i'd do it here <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All you want is to sleep. It wouldn't be so bad if you didn't wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh,, there's some non-explicit sexual content in here?? like, it's happening, but no smut. the day i write smut is the day i leave this earth. idk if this chapter qualifies as dark or not, but if just the general tiredness that comes with being Big Sad triggers you, i maybe wouldn't read it? mental health is important. stay safe.

The holiday season passes in a dark haze.

Hotch comes back to work, and with him returns a strange sense of normalcy. You all go on case after case, and somehow, you all make it home at the end of the day. Your therapist moves your sessions to every three weeks because of how well you’re doing, and you don’t have the heart to tell her you’ve been deteriorating. Even with Hotch being reinstated, you don’t want to burden him with your problems.

You spend Thanksgiving down in the archives. The other archivists have gone home for the holiday, and you keep up with the few requests for solid files you get while you digitize the rest. You’d told your team that you’d likely have plans for today in hopes they wouldn’t invite you to anything, and you’d been both relieved and disappointed when they hadn’t. 

Your old team had never been very big on Thanksgiving anyway. Your family had been when you were younger, and your small town had had a number of parades and festivals, but you’d left that all behind when you’d moved away. Five and Six used the holiday as an excuse to prepare unnecessarily extravagant dishes for the eight of you, and you’d spend the rest of the night getting wine drunk and watching terrible horror movies. 

This is your first Thanksgiving in four years that you spend alone.

December comes around, and despite the twinkling lights that decorate nearly every place your cases take you, it feels like you’re drowning in a dark pit. You can tell your team is starting to pick up on it. They make more of an effort to drag you into conversations that aren’t related to the cases you work, and Penelope does her best to invite you out more and more often. You force your mood to lighten after each attempt they make, joking back and forth about the woes of seasonal depression. You pretend your heart doesn’t soar when Spencer begins to rattle off little tidbits of knowledge about the holiday season.

You buy presents for everyone you can think of. The team, Kevin, Jack, Henry, and Will. You even get Spencer’s mom something. You can tell there’s something he wants to say to you when you hand both his and his mother’s wrapped gifts to him, but he thinks better of it at the last second, and pulls you into a hug as thanks instead. When he asks you how you got your hands on the first edition of a book he’d been looking for, you give him a mischievous smile and duck back into your apartment. 

JJ and Will invite you and Spencer over for New Years Eve. You all sit in their living room, JJ and Will cuddled on their couch, you and Spencer each occupying one of their plush armchairs. You sit sideways in the chair, legs thrown up and over the armrest closest to Spencer, and you shove him with your socked feet whenever he says something stupid. 

You suspect JJ is trying to get you both drunk. She’s not the most subtle person when it comes to her friends, and you’d picked up on the constant refills she’d been giving you and Spencer after the third one. Whatever concoction she’s mixed, you know it’s too strong for you to drive home. Will has been drinking it as well, and you laugh every time he speaks with how thick his accent has gotten. You can’t understand a word he’s saying anymore. Spencer tries to mimic him, and you laugh harder. 

The steady flush of Spencer’s face is endearing. His cheeks have long since burnt red, and they grow redder still every time he laughs. You hadn’t had as much to drink as he had, and you know this wasn’t JJ’s plan. She pins you with a dirty look every time she has to refill Spencer’s drink and not yours, but you just grin at her.

“You’re too tipsy to drive home, anyway.” She insists, smiling at you innocently as she refills the glass you’ve only just drained. Spencer is off in one of the bathroom’s trying to empty his bladder.

“Where am I going to sleep if I can’t drive home?” You shoot back, picking up your glass and taking a small sip. Curse JJ and her amazing mixology.

She winks at you, leaning back into Will’s chest with a satisfied smirk. “You and Spencer can share the guest room.”

You stare at her over the rim of your glass and contemplate her words. She stares right back, unbothered.

Spencer comes stumbling back into the living room, and he collapses unceremoniously into his chair. You raise an eyebrow at him and then turn it to JJ, who looks the slightest bit guilty at the state of her best friend. She wipes it away just as quickly as it’d appeared, and she goes back to challenging you with her eyes. 

You chug the drink in your glass, side-eyeing her the entire time. You have more faith in your alcohol tolerance than she does. 

You’re doing pretty well, in your opinion, until the ball drops. You all jump up and cheer -quietly, Henry is sleeping upstairs- and you pretend to gag when JJ and Will kiss each other. But then Spencer is cupping your face and bending down, pressing his lips to yours too quickly for your muddled brain to process it. You realize you’re further gone than you thought when you kiss him back instead of pulling away. It’s only when his cold fingers slip under your shirt and make contact with your warm waist that you break the kiss and step away from him, forcing a laugh. 

The look on his face, dazed and uncertain why you pulled away, tugs at your heartstrings painfully. You turn to JJ, and the satisfied look on her face says she’d gotten what she wanted. 

“It’s late.” She comments, threading her fingers through Will’s and turning the TV off, heading toward the stairs. “You guys can share the guest room.” She winks at you as she leads Will up the stairs, and then their bedroom door closes. 

Spencer’s fingers twine through yours, and you can’t find it in yourself to pull away. 

He presses sloppy kisses up the column of your throat, turning you around and pressing you against his front. Your mouths reconnect with more teeth clacking than you think is necessary, but you’re too drunk to care. Spencer’s skin is warm beneath your fingertips, his long hair soft when you wind your hands into it. You’re halfway through undressing him when you remember you’re still in JJ’s  _ living room _ , and you tug the nearest shirt back onto your body. He protests the disappearance of skin, but you shush him.

“There’s a bed upstairs.” You stage whisper, leaning up on your toes to kiss him again. The kiss is softer this time, less rushed. “Come on.”

You do your best to be quiet as you both stumble your way up the stairs, and you’ve only just managed to shut the door silently behind you when Spencer presses you up against it. You make some noise between a hum and a laugh, running your fingers over his bare shoulders while he tries to tug his shirt off of you. 

“You’re beautiful.” He murmurs, pressing soft kisses to the planes of your face, and you bat his hands away. 

“So are you.” Is the only answer you can give, and you pull him down onto the bed to kiss him sweetly.

Spencer looks gorgeous from every angle, you find out. It doesn’t matter if he’s in front of you, behind you, or beside you, he is undeniably gorgeous. Every sound he makes fuels your fire, every mark he leaves on your skin makes you exhale. It definitely isn’t the most vigorous sex you’ve had, and Spencer doesn’t seem as experienced as a few of the people you’ve been with, but that’s never been a problem for you before. You don’t mind taking the lead. In fact, you thrive on every little noise you manage to coax from him.

He’s asleep mere moments after you’ve finished, dropping off halfway through a garbled sentence about the benefits of sex. You’d done your best to clean you both up afterwards, but you’d been just as drunk and satiated as him. He’d pulled you to his front the moment the bed shifted, pressing his lips against your forehead with a happy sigh. 

When you wake, sunlight filtering in through the blinds and slightly hungover, you’re aware that that’s the best sleep you’ve had in months. But then you come into the rest of your senses, your brain finally reestablishing connection with your body, and you can feel Spencer’s naked torso pressed against you. You’re glad you’d pushed him into his boxers and slipped his shirt on yourself before you’d gone to sleep- at least this way you’re not both completely naked. His legs are tangled with yours, his arms both under and around you. One of your arms is tucked under his arm, wrapped around his torso, fingers splayed across his naked back.

You shuffle back a little bit, still hesitant to remove yourself from him, even if guilt is burning so hot in your chest that you fear you’ll implode. Spencer is  _ beautiful _ . Tears swell in your eyes as you study his face, the hand that had been tucked between your chests coming up to trace little patterns along his cheeks. His nose twitches in response to your gentle touch, the corner of his mouth pulling upwards as he hums in his sleep. 

You don’t deserve him, and he doesn’t deserve your baggage.

You’re grateful for how heavy he sleeps when you disentangle yourself from him. He moans at the loss of your body heat, but you nudge your pillow into the space you’d occupied, and he settles back down as he cuddles it. You dress in silence, dropping Spencer’s shirt near the rest of his clothes and pulling your own sweater on. There’s a sour mix of resignation and guilt in your chest, and the tears that had been swimming in your eyes finally spill over. You take one last look at Spencer before you slip silently from the room and shut the door behind you.

JJ is feeding Henry in the kitchen when you descend the stairs. Her smug smile drops at the sight of your teary face, and she rushes forward to pull you into a hug. She whispers your name in concern as she rubs your back. “What’s wrong? What happened?” She grabs you by the shoulders and pushes you far enough away to look into your eyes, apprehension coloring her face. “Did Spencer-”

“No! God, no.” You breathe quickly, scrubbing at your face with the sleeves of your sweater. “Nothing happened in there that I didn’t want.”

“Then why are you crying?” She asks gently, and you struggle to find the words to tell her. 

They get caught on your tongue a few times, bitter and full of self-hate, but you manage them eventually. “I was dating two of the people on my old team before I was transferred. And I-I  _ like _ Spencer, a lot, but I feel like I’m… cheating on them, or something. I feel like I’m moving on too fast.”

She seems slightly put off by the fact that you were dating  _ two _ of your previous teammates, but she does her best to take it with stride. “Are you still with them?”

“No.” You whisper, shaking your head even as it jostles your headache. “Not anymore.”

“I don’t understand what the problem is, then. If you’ve broken up-”

You laugh sadly, sinking onto the couch. “We didn’t break up, JJ. They  _ died.” _

“Oh.” Is all she can offer you, though you don’t give her time to do much more. You push yourself back up from the couch and tug on your thicker coat, grabbing your keys and heading to the door to slip your shoes on. You listen for any movement upstairs, and when there is none, you turn back to your friend.

“If Spencer doesn’t remember, please don’t tell him.”

“I can’t lie to my best friend.” She responds, and you snort. 

“You could. I don’t know how to deal with my feelings yet, JJ. My therapist has been helping me try to get a handle on them, but last night was never part of the plan. I’m still supposed to be coping.”

Her mouth pulls into a frown, and she can’t meet your gaze. “I’m sorry.”

You exhale shakily. “It’s alright. You didn’t know. I should have stopped when I figured out what you were playing at, but I think some part of me wanted to see if it would happen. Just another way to torture myself, you know?” You unlock her front door, slipping out of it quietly. “Thank you for having me over, Jaege. I’ll see you later.”

She waves goodbye, and you close the door. You can hear her lock it behind you with a soft click, and then you climb into your SUV and drive away. You’ve just placed a plan-b on the checkout counter of the drugstore you’ve stopped in when your phone buzzes.

_ “He doesn’t remember.”  _ The text from JJ reads, and with it comes a feeling you can’t decipher. This is good, right? This is good.

You’re tired.

-

It takes four days before Spencer remembers what happened between the two of you. You’re actually surprised it took him four days to remember, and you curse his eidetic memory the moment he corners you.

He’d followed you into your apartment, not uncommon for the two of you after a case, but you could feel something off in the air. Had you not spent three months living with him, you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint the moment his body language changed.

You drop your keys on the little side table near your door, kicking your shoes off and moving into the kitchen. Spencer doesn’t copy your motions, and that was the final clue you needed. He’d figured it out.

“Did we sleep together?” Spencer asks you, leaning against the counter furthest from you. You know he’s asking in an effort to let you come clean; you know he already knows.

“Yeah.” You sigh, turning off the sink’s faucet and leaning back against it to meet his eyes. “We did.”

A staring contest of sorts ensues, and with it comes a tense silence, but you can’t bring yourself to break it.

Spencer’s expression is a cross between hopeful and agitated. “Are we going to talk about it?”

“No.”

His expression gives way to plain agitation. “No?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Spencer.” You breathe, reaching up to scrub your face, and you’re almost surprised with yourself when you find your face completely dry. You’d been crying so much these past few months, it seemed only natural you’d cry when Spencer finally confronted you.

“That’s not fair. You don’t just get to have drunk sex with me, leave before I wake up, and then not talk about it afterwards.” Spencer seethes, eyebrows pinching. He’s angry, and hurt, and you know you should feel bad. But as much as you want to, you don’t have the emotional capacity to feel bad for him right now.

“I know.” You breathe into the tense air between you.

“So why?” He demands, crossing his arms in front of him, “What’s your excuse?”

You don’t tell him that he’s too good for you, because you know he’ll have some kind of rebuttal for that. You don’t tell him that you were so overwhelmed by how perfect he was that you ran. You don’t tell him about the three matching rings you’d found in your closet this morning before you’d left for the case. “I can’t do this right now, Spencer.” You whisper, unable to meet his eyes. “Not with you.” Not with anyone, but no one else is here. No one reaches for you like he does.

“I see.” Comes his reply, but the fight has left him. Your gaze flicks back up to him, but he won’t meet your eyes.

“Wait, Spencer. I didn’t mean-”

“No, it’s okay.” He tells you, hand already closed on the knob of your front door. “I get it. I do. I’ll see you at work.” He shuts your apartment door behind him, though it’s just shy of a slam. You sink to the floor and lean your head back against the counter, counting each angry step you can hear him take in his apartment above you. 

You hadn’t meant it the way he’d taken it, but it was too late now. The damage was already done. You’d gotten what you wanted, though, hadn’t you? You didn’t have to worry about feeling guilty anymore. Three and Seven were dead, they couldn’t judge you for this, and you’d made up Spencer’s mind about you, so you didn’t have to deal with your feelings for him anymore. You’d solved all of your problems.

The box with the three rings, a beautiful thing of blue velvet, taunts you from where you know it sits on the coffee table. You push yourself up and walk into the living room, sinking heavy onto the couch as you gather the box in your hands. You flip the lid open with a tired sigh. The rings gleam in the yellow lamplight, and you reach in to pull the third one from its little space. It’s just as real as it was this morning, still an almost monstrous weight between your fingers, still an unblemished band of gold.

_ ‘One Heart, Three Parts’  _ is engraved in a loopy font on the inside of the band. Though you haven’t worked up the nerve to touch the other ones, you’re sure they read the same. The other rings may be different sizes, but you know they’re part of a set. 

You slip the band onto your left ring finger, and the storm that had been gathering inside of you since you first set foot on the field with your new team finally crescendos. It feels like you’re running from something, but your feet are too heavy to move. The storm inside of you expands along your skin, weighing the rest of your limbs down in a cold kind of melancholy. You slip the ring off and set it softly back in it’s spot, closing the box with a gentle click. The box goes into the drawer with the flags in the spot your flag should have been.

You’re tired.

-

You deteriorate slowly, yet all at once. 

Your chest is always heavy, head always foggy with an apathetic exhaustion. Were you an unsub, you know the team would have long since described you as devolving.

“You doing alright, Speed Racer?” Morgan asks you one night, and you scrub at your eyes with your fists as you try to find an answer. You’re all on the jet back from a case, and the rest of the team is watching you.

“Just tired.” You reply after a long while. “My therapist changed me to a different sleep aid, and my body is still adjusting to it.” It’s not a lie, but you know they don’t really believe you.

“Just making sure.” Morgan responds, clearly disbelieving, but he claps you on the shoulder and slips his headphones on anyway. You curl sideways into your seat and rest your head against the wall. 

JJ tries to look out for you, checking on your wellbeing whenever the two of you are alone. Spencer has likely already told her what happened between the two of you, and she probably feels responsible for it. She doesn’t believe you when you tell her it’s not her fault.

“You should tell him.” She murmurs to you when you’re driving between crime scenes. Today is Valentine’s Day. “He’d understand.”

All you can bring yourself to do is shrug. You don’t want to burden anyone with any of this anymore.

You’re barely present anymore. You eat less, and you sleep more, but you’re always tired no matter how much you sleep. You observe crime scenes and offer feedback without really realizing it. You’re a precise profiler, and your aim never falters. All that matters to you is work anymore, and you make sure you do your job well. It’s your only obligation.

You remember Morgan talking about Hotch when he got like this. He’d said he had nothing left to lose. 

There are things you could still lose, you remind yourself. Almost eight months, and this team has become everything to you. You cherish every flirty exchange between Penelope and Morgan. You could weep in relief every time one of them picks up the phone when you call, even if all you’re calling about is a lead on the case. You thrive on Emily’s dry wit and soft concern. Rossi invites you to his home and you show him some of the dishes Five had taught you to make, and you feel like you can breathe again each time he corrects you for something Five had done wrong. 

“No, don’t use oregano.” Rossi had scolded, smacking the small plastic bottle out of your hand with a wooden spoon. “That’ll make it taste like pizza.”

The archivists are a small family of their own, and they welcome you with open arms and gentle words every time you descend into the depths. Hotch sends you down there whenever the team needs a file instead of asking one of them to come up. He knows you feel safe down there, and you feel like your heart learns how to beat once more every time he notices you struggling and sends you down. You still spend time with JJ, feeling your fingers still in their shaking each time she leans over you to offer her opinion, or when she invites you over to dinner. It’s the small things.

And even if Spencer doesn’t speak to you outside of work anymore, even if it stings each time he isn’t hovering around your desk to show you a new magic trick he’d mastered, you still cherish him, too. Every creek of your ceiling is a corresponding step he takes in his apartment above you, and it reminds you that even here, you’re not alone. He may not reach for you anymore, may not invite himself into your apartment unannounced, but he’s there. 

You still have things to live for, but you wish you didn’t have to keep reminding yourself of that. You wish it could just be a fact, a simple state of life. You just want to be able to breathe again. All you want is to feel like you’re not being crushed and suffocated when all you’re doing is lying on your bed, or in the center of your cold wooden floor. You wish the bags under your eyes would go away- maybe take the nightmares with them. You wish you could sleep.

You’re so tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha so,,,, :)) hope that wasn't too all over the place for yall bc my brain was on some wacky shit while writing this one


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last week of February is upon you, and with it brings the dreaded one year marker. Hopefully this trip into your past won't ruin you beyond repair.

There are three days until the anniversary of your team’s death.

You’re glad that Spencer is the one on the top floor and not you. He’d have long since grown sick of your constant pacing. You walk from your bedroom door, to the bookshelf on the far wall of the living room, and back again. You continue this path for hours on end. Some nights you don’t ever stop pacing: you get home from work, pace, and then freshen up to go back to work. Other nights you can’t bring yourself to get up from the couch once you’ve dropped yourself onto it. 

You go into work early again this morning. There’s no more waiting until later so you can drive Spencer, he doesn’t want rides from you anymore. It’s barely past 5am when you get to work, the sun nowhere in the sky. You tug the jacket tighter around yourself against the below freezing air, but it doesn’t do much. 

Most of the lights are off, and you keep them that way. You flip your desk lamp on and sit down, rearranging the case files on your desk. The words swim together as you stare at them, but you do your best to work through them anyway. There’s no sound in the room aside from the scratching of your pen and the bouncing of your leg under the desk. You lose focus too often, mind wandering somewhere you can’t find it, and you don’t have the energy to call it back. 

It could be a few seconds that pass, but when you glance at the clock again, it’s been almost an hour. You click your pen closed, grateful you hadn’t left an abhorrent amount of ink haphazardly on the case file, and you begin to put everything away. There are going to be two possible outcomes for today, and it’s best that your desk be organized for either.

You push yourself to your feet and take a moment to gather your scattered thoughts. It feels like you’re wading through mud that rises high above your eyes, and there’s no way out of it. There are no hands reaching for you, there is no one to pull you out. Not this time. The light for Strauss’ office is on, and you make your way over on silent feet. She meets you at the door, gaze stern. You’re caught.

“Sit.” She commands, gesturing to one of the seats across from her desk. You sink down into it, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your knees. “How many days are you taking off?” She asks you sternly, and her face leaves no room for attempted denial.

“I was going to ask Hotch for a week, give or take a few days.” You respond honestly, voice barely audible even though there is no competing noise in the room.

Strauss regards you in silence, leaning back to cross her arms over her chest. “I’ve already cleared you for a week starting today.” She tells you, pausing for a moment before uncrossing her arms and leaning forward onto her desk. When she says your name, it is filled with stern concern. “Listen, you’re a great profiler, and an even better liar. But whatever it is you’re doing right now isn’t going to cut it. You need empathy to do your job, and you aren’t showing it.”

“I know.” You answer softly, unable to meet her eyes. You pin your gaze to the sharp edges of her desk instead.

“You need to make an active choice to get better.” Strauss says. “You need to be stronger than it.” 

When you look up at her, finally meeting her eyes, she’s honest and open. She’s a woman who’s seen things, who’s done things, but above all else, you can see your own eyes staring back at you. Tired, and sad, but the smallest hints of something more underneath. Something hesitant and shaky, but _more._

“Thank you.” You murmur, pushing yourself to your feet. “I’m going to tell Hotch I’ve been cleared, but then I’ll go.”

She shakes your hand, grip firm, and then you’re ducking back out of her office door. The BAU is still dark save for your desk lamp, but the lights will be turned on soon. You settle back at your desk and stare aimlessly at the shadowed silhouettes of your friend’s desks. It will be weird not seeing them every day. You can already feel yourself missing them, yet you haven’t even left. 

Hotch comes in at 7 on the dot, but you give him a few minutes to settle into his office before you go to talk to him. You knock lightly on the open door, and he looks up from the barely opened file to meet your eyes. You can tell he already knows why you’re here.

“Is it alright if I take a week off?” You ask him softly, shutting the door behind you. You know people are going to start getting here soon, and you want this to be as private as it can be. “There are some things I need to do.”

He studies you for a moment, most likely profiling you, and the thought brings the smallest of smiles to your face. “Of course.” Hotch says, and then he clicks a few things on his computer. He turns back to you with a furrowed brow. “Strauss cleared you for leave last night, you didn’t need to come ask me.”

“I was going to ask you anyway. Strauss just got here first.” You answer. You reach into the pocket of your coat and pull out a small envelope as an afterthought, stretching your arm across the desk to hand it to him. He rips it open at your encouraging nod, and his eyebrows furrow even more. “They’re those tickets we talked about, for the race track.” You explain. “I wanted to give them to you and Jack for Christmas, but I couldn’t swing them in time.”

“You didn’t have to do this.” Hotch tells you, though the corner of his lips pulls the barest hint upwards. “You do know you’re coming back, right? This is a leave, not a termination.”

You snort despite yourself, leaning back in the chair you occupy and shaking your head. “I know, don’t worry.” The two of you settle into a strange silence, and your mind wanders away from you again. He goes back to working on his cases and lets you sit there for who knows how long. Occasionally you’ll check back in mentally, and the two of you will converse until your thoughts slip away from you once more. Were you more present, you’d find your own behavior horribly concerning, but you aren’t, so you don’t much care.

Your phone beeps at the same time Hotch’s does, drawing your attention back to the room. You check the notification, cringing when you see it’s a case, and then cringing again when you see the time. You’ve been loitering in Hotch’s office for nearly an hour and a half.

“That would be your cue to get out of here.” Hotch tells you, some vague attempt at a joke, and you offer him a tired smile. The two of you get to your feet, and you jolt in surprise when he steps around his desk to pull you into a brief hug. “Stay safe.” He tells you gently, and you wonder if this is what it’s like to have a good dad. One who lets you make your own decisions but still cares for you when they’re made.

“Will do, boss man.” You respond lightly, tucking yourself against him for a moment longer before you pull away and step out of his office door. You ignore the looks your team is shooting you from where they’ve gathered in the bullpen, and you slip out of the glass doors. You have to twirl around Spencer when he comes around a corner you weren’t anticipating, but neither of you stop to speak to each other. It’s easier this way.

It takes just over five hours to get to your first destination, a city near the docks in New York. You stop off at a hotel first, uncaring of the too-clean smell that covers the entire room. You drop your bag on the bed closest to the door and remove your gun and holster, tucking them in your bag and then kicking your bag under the bed. You’re back out the door a moment later, onto your next destination. 

You have to parallel park across the street from the small cafe, and you curse the name of this city as you dart back across. You dip inside and order a simple hot chocolate, and then you’re parking yourself in a corner table while you wait. You have eyes on all the entrances this way, so you spot the person you’re waiting for the moment she enters. She sees you, too, and she comes to sit down after the barista has given her her drink. It smells like herbal tea.

“It’s good to see you again, Dr. Campbell.” You greet softly, reaching a hand across the table to shake her own.

“Please,” Dr. Campbell says, waving your formalities away. “Call me Alisha.” 

Alisha is much the same as she was when you last saw her, though you remember very little of that time. You’d gotten sick in the midst of your recovery from her operation that saved your life, so a lot of your memories were fuzzy. Her dark skin remains unblemished, soft brown eyes still as kind as they’d been nearly a year ago, but her smile lines have gotten deeper. They suit her. 

“How have you been?” She asks you gently, gaze bubbling with concern. You know how you probably look, bags under your eyes, cheeks growing hollow. It’s not your fault that you forget to eat, you just… lose track of time. Before you know it, you’re busy again.

“I’m f-” You start, but Alisha cuts you off with a hum of disapproval.

“I want to know how you really are.” She insists firmly, but not unkindly. “Don’t bullshit me.”

You sip your hot chocolate in quiet contemplation, watching her as you mull over your answer. “Honestly? Sometimes I wish you’d never saved me.” You tell her, sinking further into your seat in shame, but all Alisha does is nod.

“And other times?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I was doing really well for a while, but then I got involved with this guy-”

“Men ruin everything.” Alisha comments flippantly, and you snort so violently you fear hot chocolate may emerge from your nose. 

“He’s actually really sweet.” You continue, smiling around the rim of your paper cup. “But I was dating some-” You have to stop yourself from telling her you’d dated two someones. “-one on my team, and I never really got closure from them, and now there’s this guy. This super sweet guy whose feelings I keep hurting because I’m all messed up inside.”

Alisha regards you quietly, sipping some of her tea as she squints at you. Her expression isn’t one of judgement, and for that you’re grateful. “Is this boy the only reason you wish I hadn’t saved you?” She asks, and you bite at your bottom lip.

“Not necessarily.” You murmur into your cup. “When… when my team died, the only solace I’d taken was knowing I wouldn’t have to live without them. They were the only family I really had, you know? Even though I was going to be alone in my final moments, I wasn’t scared because I knew it wouldn’t last.”

“And then you woke up.” Alisha finishes for you, face soft and eyes sad.

“And then I woke up.” You repeat softly. Your shoulders slump, and you watch the cooling liquid in your cup ripple with each twitch of your shaking fingers. 

Alisha reaches across the table and takes one of your hands, holding your shaking fingers in her steady ones. “If you could go back in time to that day, knowing everything you know today, would you ask me not to save you?” 

Would you have asked her not to save you? The question drags your mind down, and were it not for your hand in hers, you fear you’d melt into a puddle on the floor. Had she asked you this question ten months ago, you would have said yes. Had she asked you this question on your first day with the BAU, you would have said yes. Would you say yes now, though? Could you give up your girl’s days and nights? Your days babysitting Henry? Your workouts with Morgan? Rossi and Hotch’s odd way of showing affection? Your archivists? Your moments with Spencer? Could you give all that up, were you given the chance?

“No.” You answer finally, shocking yourself with your sincerity. “I don’t think I would.”

“Life goes on.” She tells you softly, patting your hand as her pager beeps. “Each step we have to take without the people we love burns like Hell’s hottest fire, but life goes on. We don’t have to forgive, and we don’t have to forget, but you can’t let bad things shadow the rest of your life. You can’t let one thing control the rest of your life, no matter how awful it was.” She says your name gently, rising to her feet, and you go with her. “You have so much life left to live. This is a chapter in the book of your life; it doesn’t have to be the end of the book. You just have to find a fitting end to this part, so you can make a beautiful beginning for the next.”

Your heart is thundering in your chest, cheeks heating as tears gather in your eyes, but Alisha just gives you a sweet smile “I look forward to seeing where you go in life.” She whispers, and then she pulls you into a tight hug. She’s just the right height that you can tuck your face into her shoulder, and she doesn’t comment on the tears that you leave on her coat.

“Thank you.” You whisper softly, and she smiles so warmly at you that you feel you may fall over. 

“Go back to wherever you’re staying and cry it out, sweetheart. Then take another step into a new day, and heal. I know you can do it.” She has to leave after that, called off for another surgery. The barista and the patrons give you strange looks, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You drop your empty paper cup in the trashcan and dart back across the street, diving into the heated interior of your car and driving back to the hotel.

You truly weep that night, crying for so long and so violently your head feels like it will implode. You calm down every once in a while, but then you think of something else, and your crying begins anew. The contents of your bag have long since been dumped onto the other bed in the room, and you press the sweatshirt Spencer left behind against your face as some kind of comfort. This is the emotional storm that had been building. This is what had been riding inside of you for so long.

You’ve been sleeping off and on for hours, waking intermittently when your body decides to cry again, but soon you grow restless. You tug the tearstained sweatshirt over your head and shimmy into a pair of jeans, lacing your boots up over socked feet. You grab your keys and get in your SUV, driving absentmindedly north. You drive further upstate until you’re settled on a highway in the midst of a mountain range, and you pull off to the side of the road to watch the sun come up. With the rising sun comes large plumes of mist that dance over the dips of valleys and farmlands, and the image instills a sense of peace in you.

But then you crank the radio up as loud as it will go, and you scream. 

You beat the steering wheel angrily, eyes screwed shut as you shout every piece of profanity in every language you know. You stomp wildly into the floorboards, flailing uselessly in an attempt to get the rage and unrest out of your system. You probably look a mess, sitting on the side of the road with your Virginia license plate and throwing a temper tantrum, but you can’t bring yourself to care. This is cathartic in a way that working out and therapy never were, and you’ll be damned if you don’t get every last ounce of whatever this is out. You scream and shout every problem you have into the space around you, the mountain peaks your only witness.

When you finally stop, out of breath and lightheaded, you feel so much better. Your hands will likely bruise from how hard you were beating on the steering wheel, and you whisper a small apology to it after a moment. You catch yourself midway through, and you laugh. It’s a light laugh, lighter than you’ve been able to get it in months, and it feels _good._

You know this isn’t the end of it. You still have two more days to get through before the actual day arrives. There is still so much processing and healing you have to do, but you think you can do it. You _want_ to do it. Now that you’ve finally escaped from that dark haze at least somewhat, you never want to go back. You’re a realist, though, so you know this won’t be the last time. You know you’re going to have bad days, and worse days, but you also know that they don’t all have to be that way.

You’ll address your feelings for Spencer at some other point. For now you revel in the feeling of his sweatshirt on your bare skin, and you play with the cuffs of the sleeves where they rest around your fingers. It smells like him, too. You grin when you catch a whiff of the conditioner you bought him on the neckline. His hair was so much softer now that you’d bullied him into using things that were actually good for it. 

You miss him.

The sun is relatively high in the sky when you get back to the hotel, but you don’t actually know what time it is. Your phone had found purchase on the unused bed the moment you arrived yesterday, and you weren’t going to touch it until you left. All of the notifications are off, and if it somehow manages to vibrate, you won’t hear it. It’s tucked too far into the pillows.

Your mood crashes again when you finally shut the hotel room door behind you. You teeter forward on unsteady feet and collapse onto the bed you’d been sleeping in, burying yourself in the sheets. There’s a chance a nap will make you feel better, so you wiggle around until you’re comfortable and let yourself doze. You have to hide your head under the covers to avoid the midday sunlight peeking in through the curtains that cover the sliding glass door. 

The sun is still shining through the curtains when you wake up, and you feel surprisingly rested for a nap that couldn’t have been more than a few hours. You’re still kind of tired, but you can wait to go to bed when it’s actually night time. You untangle yourself from the sheets and dip into the bathroom to use it and brush your teeth, disgusted by the taste of mouth in your mouth. The toothbrush nearly falls out of your mouth when you spot the lightened dark circles under your eyes, the barely there color a stark contrast from the usual deep purple.

You spit the toothpaste out of your mouth and hurry to get your boots on, forgoing undoing and redoing the laces for the zipper on the side. You have to jam your foot in a little harder than normal, but you’d rather go for the fast and mildly uncomfortable method than the slow and casual one. 

Hm. Maybe you should try to correct that behavior. 

There are twelve flights of stairs between you and the lobby, and you delight in taking them. You’ll probably trip someday with how fast you run down every set of stairs you can find, but that’s a problem for Future You. The lobby is relatively silent, which would make sense considering it’s got to be sometime in the late afternoon. It’ll likely pick up speed when the evening rolls around and people start to get off work or out of business meetings.

You head to the little dining area and are shocked to find them serving breakfast. Your eyes flick to the large antique clock on the wall, and your eyebrows nearly disappear into your hairline when you see that it’s only just after 9:30am. You slept for nearly 20 hours.

That would explain why you’re so rested, you suppose. 

Was that the reason you hadn’t been sleeping well? You finally let out all of the emotions you’d been letting build inside of you for months, and then you’d slept unbelievably well. It didn’t make the most sense to you, but you also weren’t going to question it. As unsettling as it was to discover you’d slept through nearly an entire day, you couldn’t deny how much you missed actually feeling rested when you slept.

But you’d slept through until this morning, which brings your time down to one day. You have less than 24 hours to figure out _why_ you came all the way to New York. Tomorrow marks the anniversary. 

You grab a muffin and climb the stairs back to your room where you grab your car keys and gun, and then immediately turn to dip into the hallway and go back down the stairs. The drive to the docks is quiet, your mind running rapid circles around the confines of your skull. This is better than having your mind slip away from you for hours at a time, and you try not to think too hard about what you’re heading to do. It doesn’t help that your brain is dragging forth every last memory you have of this awful warehouse on the docks.

There’s someone standing in front of the warehouse when you get there, shuffling awkwardly on their feet. You park further down the dock and stare at them through your tinted windshield, and they do their best to stare back, but you know they can’t see you. They’re probably trying to figure out if you’re some kind of unmarked cop car -which you kind of are- and the thought makes you laugh.

You tuck your gun into the back of your pants, lifting Spencer’s sweatshirt up to cover it. You tug Seven’s linen-lined bomber jacket on on top of it, and then you turn off your SUV and get out. The person near the entrance of the warehouse stiffens at your approach, eyes wide as they watch you walk toward them. You relax when you realize you recognize them, but then your anxiety spikes back up.

“What’re you doing here?” You ask softly, and the woman before you flinches as though she’s been caught. “It’s not safe to be on the docks by yourself.”

She shrugs, wild blonde curls swirling in the wind. “I could ask you the same thing.”

You smile at her, ignoring your building anxiety in favor of trying to soothe her. She doesn’t recognize you, which isn’t surprising. You’d been completely geared up the last time you’d seen her, bullet proof vest and tactical helmet obscuring most of your features. You tug your wallet from its place in your pocket and flip it open, leafing through the polaroids you keep in one of the card slots until you find the one you’re looking for.

“Does this answer your question?” You ask her, awkwardly handing her the polaroid. She takes it after eyeing you for a moment in suspicion, and then she holds it close to her face, and her jaw drops.

“It’s _you._ ” She breathes, openly gaping at you when she hands it back. You offer her an awkward half smile, a tiny wave accompanying it. “I didn’t know you survived.” You flinch as though you’d been struck, and she backpedals quickly. “I’m so sorry! That came out so wrong. You- I just- lets start over. Hi, I’m Jolene Laroche, it’s nice to formally meet you.”

You huff some type of laugh, reaching out to shake Jolene’s extended hand as you offer her your name. The two of you stare at each other for a while after you’ve let go, and Jolene rocks back and forth on her feet.

“So we’re here for the same reason, huh?” She asks you quietly, and you nod your affirmation. You’ve already turned to watch the old warehouse, waiting patiently for something to happen. Jolene turns to watch the front of it with you, and she speaks again after a few minutes. “I can’t bring myself to go inside alone.”

That’d been your original plan. You were going to go down into the basement of this warehouse where you were held captive a year ago, all by yourself, and face the basement where your family had been killed, all by yourself. Yeah. Now that you were really thinking about it, it’d been a dumb plan. You wouldn’t have been able to do it.

“I don’t think I can either.” You admit softly. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

You twist the cuffs of Spencer’s sweatshirt in your antsy fingers as your gaze flits over the blank surface of the warehouse wall. Your anxiety is still rolling around in your chest like some kind of tidal wave, stealing your breath with each pass it makes over your lungs. You want to go inside. You want to go into the basement and prove that it can’t hurt you again. The only thing you have to fear about this building is your own memory, and someday you want to best even that. You want to recover.

The warehouse looms above you with each step you take, and you can hear Jolene’s squeak and hurried footsteps as she follows you. She reaches out and grabs your elbow with both hands, and the physical contact does you well. The two of you pause just outside of the doorway, neither sure if this is a good idea.

“We made it this far, right?” Jolene asks you hesitantly, and though you nod, neither of you make any motion to move forward. 

It’s incredibly dreary inside, the cloud cover doing very little to cast any kind of light into the large empty box of a building. You can just barely make out the sound of things fluttering inside on the breeze that comes in through the broken windows near the ceiling. Jolene grips your elbow a little tighter, and you know she hears it too. You reach behind you with your dominant hand and pull your gun from the back of your pants, flipping the flashlight attached to the end on and shining it inside. Jolene jumps at the sight of it.

“Why do you have a gun?” She asks fretfully, and you snort.

“I still work with the FBI, Jolene. I carry it on me all the time.”

Her fingers twitch against your arm. “Am I in trouble for trespassing?” She whispers, and this time you laugh out loud.

“No, don’t worry. I’m not here officially.” You reassure her, glancing over your shoulder and offering a tight smile. “You may want to get out of here if a bunch of people in suits start showing up, though.” You joke as an afterthought.

Jolene’s laugh is a tinkling little sound, and it turns your smile genuine, even if it remains small. “So you’re trespassing, too.” She concludes, and you nod.

“Yeah. But I think the two of us should have at least one free pass to be here. You know?”

She sombers at your words, and the two of you go back to peering inside. The beam of your flashlight illuminates a decent amount of space, and you once more praise the stupidly powerful flashlights the FBI somehow gets their hands on. When nothing jumps out at you from inside, you take one hesitant step in through the open doorway. The sound of your boots meeting the concrete floor echoes around the large room, and soon it is joined by the shuffling of Jolene’s softer boots. You both stand completely still, holding your breath in anticipation.

“What now?” She asks you, and all you can do is shrug. You genuinely hadn’t thought you’d make it this far. When you had thought of this moment in your head, it had always been intercepted by the memory of your last time being here. You’d blink and then you’d be back in the basement, tied up and watching your team bleed out all over again. It’d been terrifying when their faces had been replaced by your current team, and you’d had to watch them die, too.

“I guess we take another step.” You say after a while, yet once more, neither of you move.

But then you do take the next step. And a few minutes later you take the next. You’re not sure if you’re holding Jolene up or if she’s supporting you, but you use the physical connection between the two of you as a lifeline. Each step you take echoes, and you can just barely make out each puff of hot air that escapes you. 

There’s old police tape fluttering on the wind around certain beams, and you sigh in quiet relief once you’ve spotted it. That explains the noises, and it puts you the tiniest bit at ease. You still feel like you’re somewhere you aren’t supposed to be, like you’re walking through someone’s house mere moments before they come home. It makes your heart race in anticipation and the smallest bit of fear.

“Can we stop here?” Jolene requests, and the two of you come to a halt. You’ve stopped by one of the support beams, just a few feet away from the stairs into the basement. Jolene unwraps one of her hands from your elbow and reaches out to the beam, hand shaking violently as she hesitates to touch it.

“It’s okay.” You encourage softly, bumping her gently with your hip. “It can’t hurt you.”

Her hand makes contact with the beam, and she stiffens entirely beside you. She unwinds little by little, fingers relaxing in the bone crushing grip she’d had your arm in as the moments pass. Jolene laughs a little, and you can hear the tears she holds in the back of her throat.

“This is where they tied me up.” She tells, blue eyes wet as she rubs her thumb into the metal support beam. “They put a gun to my head and they told me I’d never make it out of here; that I’d die with them. I was okay with it at the time, honestly. I came to the city to kill myself that morning. I didn’t know where else to go with my life, and it seemed like the only option.” Jolene turns to you then, tears bubbling over her cheeks. “But then you came through that door, no weapon drawn, but you looked so determined. You saved me.”

You hadn’t realized you’d begun to tear up as well until the image of Jolene before you blurs. You cough around the tears, clearing your throat as you look anywhere but at her. “I didn’t save you, though.” You whisper softly, studying the shape of her hand against the beam. Her wedding band somehow gleams even in the low light. “I didn’t save anybody.”

Jolene shakes her head. “You came into this building without a weapon. You risked your life and then nearly lost it to save mine. You _saved_ me. Good people died so that I, someone who was going to throw my life away, could live. There hasn’t been one day where I wake up and I don’t thank you.”

Part of you wants to be angry. You hadn’t saved anyone. You’d gotten the people you loved most killed, and you couldn’t even die afterwards. Some unknown force was making you live as punishment, and it makes you so angry. But then you think of your new team, and your anger dissipates so quickly it steals your breath away. You think of Alisha’s question, and your unflinching answer, and your unrest settles. It hurts _so fucking bad,_ but you’ll be okay. You know you will.

“Thank you.” You whisper softly, and Jolene hums just as softly in response. She pulls her hand from the beam and wraps it around your elbow once more, and the two of you turn to the basement stairs.

“Do you want me to go first?” She asks, and you almost say yes. The word catches on the tip of your tongue, twisting around your teeth and back down your throat.

“No.” You respond quietly. “But I think the staircase is big enough that we can walk down next to each other.”

Jolene moves to stand beside you, reaching down and taking your hand in hers. She takes the first step, and then you take the next, until the two of you are standing at the top of the stairs. Your flashlight’s beam has already picked up the edge of an old bloodstain, and the sight of it makes your stomach turn. You remember that blood too well. Jolene squeezes your hand in an attempt to ground you, and you squeeze back as tightly as you can. After what very well could have been a decade, you inhale sharply and take the first step down the stairs.

You have to stop immediately after, nausea stealing your determination as fast as you’d gotten it. Jolene stands resolutely beside you, and you use her as a lighthouse in the storm. You’re tethered to this world by her hand in yours. You’ll be okay.

It takes nearly fifteen minutes to make it down the stairs. You’re shaking violently by the time you make it to the bottom, the beam of your flashlight vibrating all over the place. Jolene remains by your side, hand holding yours just as tightly as your grip hers. You count your breaths, falling back on the breathing techniques your therapist had taught you for your nightmares, and you’re grateful when they work. You stop shaking ever so slowly, and the only indication that you’re uneasy is the death grip you have on the woman beside you.

“It’s okay.” Jolene soothes quietly, repeating your own words back to you. “It can’t hurt you.”

There’s nothing in this basement that can hurt you. The only living things here are you and Jolene, and maybe a few rats. Possibly a ghost, though a ghost isn’t alive.

“I can do this.” You say to yourself, pointing the flashlight at the enormous brown bloodstain in the center of the room. 

“You can do this.” Jolene repeats to you, and you nod. You can do this.

You take a few steps into the room, and the toes of your boots have already met the edge of the old bloodstain. It looks like they’d tried to scrub it away after they’d taken your team’s bodies out of here, but they hadn’t gotten very far. There had been so much blood, you remember that much. It’d splashed onto your face when they’d let Seven’s corpse hit the ground, and it seeped deep into the material of your pants. You can feel it now, wet and too warm, thick and red against the skin of your leg, none of it your own.

“Come back to me.” You hear Jolene call somewhere in the distance, and you can feel her hand squeezing your own at a steady pace. You follow that rhythmic squeeze, letting it lead you back to the present and out of the past. There are no bodies on the floor when you blink this time. The blood on the floor is once more a simple brown stain, and when you reach up to brush your knuckles against your face, they come away clean. “Where did you go?” Jolene asks softly.

“Here.” You shrug, and you have to blink a few times to clear your focus. “But it was then, not now.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” She inquires quietly, and you’re struck by how ridiculous this is. You’re holding hands with a stranger in the basement of the building you both nearly died in, reliving your deepest traumas together. It makes you laugh bitterly, and you have to use the sleeve of Seven’s coat to wipe your tears.

“Just don’t go telling the news about any of this, okay?” You request, and she nods. You slowly lower yourself onto the bottom step behind you, and Jolene sits down against your side. The two of you stare into the center of the room while you gather your words.

“I’m not really sure why I’m here.” You tell her honestly. “I knew I needed to come here, but I don’t know why. Maybe to prove that it wasn’t some sick dream; maybe to torture myself some more. I reached out to the doctor that saved me, and we talked, and I found out some things about myself I hadn’t known.” You shine the flashlight into the spot where they’d dropped you to bleed out. “I actually don’t want to die, you know? I’ve been so tired recently- I think I have been for a long time. I never really took the time to deal with anything, even when I was going to therapy. I was so worried I’d lose my job if my boss read something he didn’t like, so I stopped being honest. And the constant lying made me so tired.”

You drag the flashlight over each spot where your team’s bodies had been, and then you shine the flashlight into the corner of the room where a broken mirror lies. It illuminates the entire room, and you set the flashlight down by your feet so you don’t have to keep holding it as you continue. “I wanted to die when I woke up in the hospital. I wanted to die for so long after that. But then my new coworkers showed up at my apartment and made me go on a girl’s day with them, and suddenly I had friends. I had people to live for. It was so weird, but I finally had something to live for. Even if it was just something as dumb as going to a shop and getting the nicest deal on a bottle of lotion, it was something to live for. I lied so I wouldn’t lose any of that, but I still kind of did anyway. I shut them all out when I needed them most, and I hurt their feelings, and I felt so lost.”

“But I realized that I don’t want to have to live for other people.” You turn to Jolene, and she watches you with wide eyes. “I was talking to the doctor who saved my life, and I realized I want to live for _me._ I don’t want my will to live to be based on other people’s wants and needs of me. I want to get to the point where I wake up and I don’t question whether or not I’m supposed to be alive anymore. I want to wake up and be alive simply because I _can._ I want to do all of this for me, not for anyone else. I deserve to be happy.”

There’s a long moment of silence once you’ve finished, and you stare straight into Jolene’s face. She smiles so kindly at you, thin lips pulling into a warm smile, and you feel like everything you said had been good. “You really needed to say that, didn’t you?” She asks, and though her voice is still gentle, you can tell she’s serious.

“I did. I don’t know if I needed to say it to me, or the world, or this room, or just anyone who would listen, but I needed to say it.” You respond just as softly, and Jolene’s warm smile turns into a grin.

“I’m glad I could be here to witness it.” She tells you, and when you finally rise to your feet, she doesn’t let go of your hand. “What will you do now?” She asks.

You shrug, taking one final glance over your shoulder before you begin to ascend the stairs. You click your flashlight off and tuck your gun back into the back of your jeans, sticking your freezing hand into your pocket afterwards. “I don’t know. Tomorrow’s _the_ day, you know? But I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Jolene lets go of your hand to pull her phone out of her pocket, and she checks the weather while you both stand in front of your car. You can tell it’s going to snow soon. She turns to you when she’s done, a hesitant smile blooming on her face. “My wife’s family and I were actually going to set off fireworks in honor of your team tomorrow. I don’t know if that’s something you’d be interested in, but we have a guest room you could stay in, and her parents make really good food.” 

“That would be…” You pause, and your mind wanders back to the funerals you’d barely been well enough to attend. They’d been so somber, and you know they’re nothing like what your team would have wanted. Nothing like your team deserved. They had all been so lively, each personality a burst of color in the dreariness you’d been subject to since you were young. They’d given your world color, and the funerals hadn’t done them justice. Maybe this would. 

“That would be really nice.” You finally finish, and the smile Jolene gives you makes you feel like you're _finally_ making the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not a lot of the baby boy in this one :( but our sweet girl is finally getting some snazzy closure, so i think that's okay


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's the day. You don't want to miss saying goodbye.

It takes a few hours to get to the address Jolene plugs into the weird little GPS contraption the two of you had purchased. Your phone had long since died, and Jolene’s family didn’t have the right charger cord for you, so you’d had to stop at a big store and spend the money to buy an actual GPS. When the screen had come to life with your destination, you’d groaned in exasperation, but now that you’re coming up on the place, you’re grateful for the long drive.

You’re drained. It’s a different kind of drained then the unnatural fog of fatigue you’ve been living in for the last four or so months. This one has some kind of satisfied undercurrent to it, coupled with an odd feeling of unrest. It no longer bunches between your shoulder blades, but you can still feel it sitting heavy inside of you. Jolene seems just as lost in thought as you are. 

The two of you talk intermittently, but most of the ride is spent in quiet silence. The scenery changes from the city, to the countryside, until it slowly becomes the mountains. You hadn’t taken the time to admire the view when you’d driven upstate the morning before, too caught up in how awful you felt at the time. Now you admire each little detail, breath catching on every new rock you drive past. The highway becomes small town roads, and then those roads become backroads, and finally the GPS tells you you’re coming up on your destination. 

“This is us.” Jolene tells you, and you turn off of the dirt road onto a gravel one. Your poor car is going to be so dirty when you make it home. The trees that line the edge of the road have no leaves, giving you a clear view of the mountain peaks that line their property. It’s a beautiful place, even with all of the dormant plants. 

“Did uh… you’ve cleared this with your family, right?” You ask hesitantly, fingers beginning to drum on the steering wheel as you continue at your crawling pace down the gravel driveway.

“I did, don’t worry.” Jolene soothes. “They’re all really excited to meet you. Also, uh, bit of a surprise incoming.”

“Oh god.” You whisper softly.

“My wife is pregnant. Like, about to pop kind of pregnant. And her parents are huggers, so just a heads up.” 

Okay. You can handle a pregnant woman and some physically affectionate parents, right? All you have to worry about is an emotionally fragile woman and parental affection you aren’t used to. You’ll be fine.

“I can do this.” You say to the air, and Jolene reaches over to pat your white knuckled fist on the steering wheel. 

“Are you going to be okay?” She asks you sweetly, concern coloring her words.

You shrug half-heartedly, looking at the house at the end of the driveway. It’s about the size of Three’s home, and the thought brings the smallest of smiles to your face. “My parents and I weren’t close when I was younger. They actually disowned me when I got outed in high school.”

“How did we have the same childhood?” Jolene asks you, and you snort despite the topic. “Mine kicked me out at seventeen. Yours?”

“Fifteen.”

Jolene whistles low, clicking her seatbelt off when you park beside an old pick-up truck. “Damn. That’s… that’s young.” She gets out of your SUV at the same time you do, shutting her door and meeting you at the trunk while you grab your bag. “I was lucky Remi's parents were supportive of us being together, they let me move in with them until we were ready to move out. She and I actually have a house down the road, but there’s more land here for the fireworks.”

“Is Remi your wife?” You ask, shouldering your bag and tugging Seven’s jacket on a little tighter against the mountain chill.

“In New York? Not legally.” She answers, shrugging her shoulders as she leads you to the front porch. “We were living in Massachusetts when we got married, so we’re legally married there. It’s not legal here, though.”

“That’s garbage.” You sneer under your breath, and Jolene snorts.

She pushes the door open and steps inside, reaching back when you hesitate to pull you in after her. “Complete bullshit.” She agrees. The two of you take your shoes off, and she leads you further into the house. “Hello? Mom? Dad? Rosie?”

“Rosie?” You whisper in confusion. 

“Remi’s real name is Rosemarie. She hates it. Rosie is just what I use to get a rise out of her.”

There’s shuffling from around the corner, and an older man with graying hair and kind eyes comes out of one of the rooms attached to the hall. He breaks into the warmest grin you ever seen at the sight of the two of you. “Jo! You’re back, how was your trip?” An older woman comes around the same corner with a matching grin on her face. 

“It was good. This is the friend I told you I made.” She gestures back to you, and you offer a tiny wave from your place down the hallway. The older woman takes her husband’s place, and he comes down the hall to pull you into a hug, too. You stiffen against him, patting awkwardly at his back.

“Thank you for saving her.” He tells you, and you choke on a gasp. Jolene had told them who you were.

The older woman hugs you as well, and Jolene disappears into the room the older couple had just come from. The man smiles at you when his wife lets go. “Just call us Mom and Dad, dear. That’s all anyone calls us these days.”

“Thank you for having me.” You tell them hesitantly, picking at your bottom lip with your teeth as they both smile warmly at you. The attention is setting you on edge. “I know it was really short notice.”

“Nonsense! It’s the least we could do.” Mom tells you, grinning as she ushers you further into the home. They lead you back into the room they’d just come out of, and you can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face at the sight of Jolene kissing her wife. It’s a sweet kind of validation, an instant kinship. They’re like you.

Remi spots you the second she opens her eyes, and she pushes herself off the couch. Jolene frets beside her, but Remi just waves her away and readjusts the large shirt she’s wearing. She approaches you as quickly as she can, reaching forward to hug you around her belly. “Thank you for saving my wife.” She whispers to you, reminiscent of her father’s words, and they steal the air from your lungs just as his had. 

“Dinner will be ready soon.” Mom tells you all, and she offers you a gentle smile. “Can you show her to her room?” She directs her question at Jolene, but Remi takes you by the elbow and leads you out of the room. Jolene scurries after the two of you, fussing the whole way.

“Jo,” Remi begins, pointing a dangerous look at her wife, “I am pregnant, not an invalid.”

Jolene huffs but steps back anyway, falling into step just behind you. “She’s very much an independent woman. How I managed to score her, I’ll never understand.”

“If I remember correctly, I’m the one that scored you.” Remi teases, pushing the door open to what you assume is the guest room and walking inside. She lowers herself onto the plush footstool at the end of the bed and grins at you. “Jo was such a nerd in high school -she still is- and listening to her talk was so endearing. I dumped my boyfriend and asked her to get coffee with me, and the rest is history.”

Your mind jumps to a certain genius you know, heart thumping painfully in your chest. “That’s really sweet.” You tell them both, smiling softly as you set your bag on the side of the bed you won’t be sleeping on.

“I saw that look.” Jolene comments, pointing a finger at you. “Who’s got you wrapped around their finger?”

“You _do_ look like you just broke your own heart.” Remi agrees, cocking an eyebrow as she regards you in suspicion. 

You tug Seven’s jacket off and fold it, setting it on top of your bag and pulling Spencer’s sweatshirt away from the front of your body to study before you answer them. “One of my coworkers. He’s-”

 _“He?!”_ Jolene exclaims, and Remi smacks the back of her head.

“Some of us like men, Jo.” She scolds. “Just because a woman has nice muscles and short hair doesn’t mean she’s gay.”

“I do like women, too.” You clarify, smiling a real smile at the two of them. Jolene ‘hmphs’ in triumph, and Remi rolls her eyes. You lean back against the bedside table to give yourself a moment before you continue. “He’s great. Amazing. Probably one of the sweetest, most endearing men I’ve ever met. If I let myself think about it too much, I can picture a future with him.”

Jolene’s eyebrows furrow. “So why do you look so sad? Did he hurt you? I’ll beat his ass.”

“He can’t take us both.” Remi seconds, and you snicker into your fist. Picturing Spencer trying to fight these two off keeps the smile stuck to your face, even as you delve back into your story.

“I’m actually the one that hurt him.” You admit, picking guiltily at a loose thread on your jeans. “I haven’t exactly been super emotionally available recently, and then he and I got drunk and we slept together-” You ignore Jolene’s gag of disgust with little more than a snicker. “Which, were I not a complete mess, would have probably led to us dating. But instead I was all ‘No, I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t do this with you.’ and of course he took what I said literally, not in the ‘I’m scared of being cared about again.’ kind of way. So I just- I don’t know. I have a lot of apologies to give him when I finally see him again.”

Remi crosses her arms over her protruding belly and pins you with a disapproving look. “You should call that boy right now and apologise to him. He deserves it.”

“Oh, trust me, I know.” You respond.

Jolene watches you in quiet contemplation, and then she tilts her head. “Why are you scared of being cared about again? Did something happen? Besides your parents and all that. Because I totally get the discomfort around vulnerability when it comes to them.”

You smile to yourself, picking at your lip as you regard the women before you. Funny, how freely you were willing to talk about your feelings when they weren’t going back to your boss. “My last relationship ended in that warehouse.” You explain, and you don’t miss the way both women’s expressions drop. “I have a history of dating my coworkers, I suppose. I’m still trying to get closure, and I don’t want to risk hurting either of us if I can’t find it. He deserves so much more than I can give him right now.”

“Have you talked to him about that?” Remi asks you, and when you shake your head no, she sighs. “You should. If he likes you, and you like him, then you should talk to him at the very least. Let him make his own decision about what he does and doesn’t deserve. That isn’t for you to decide.”

“I-” You cut yourself off, closing your mouth as you concede. “No, you’re right. I will. I owe him that much.” 

Dinner is a warm affair, and you learn more about Remi’s childhood than you think is necessary. These people treat you like family, all soft smiles and sweet words. You’re not sure how to deal with it in the moment, but you try your best to get used to it. It’s strange, being so readily accepted into the family unit, but you can admit to yourself by the time you close your eyes that night that it isn't unpleasant. 

If this is what a family is supposed to be like, maybe you could consider having one of your own. The thought has a smile blooming on your face as you nuzzle further into Spencer's sweatshirt and drift off to sleep. 

\---

_“Hey.” Someone whispers, dragging calloused fingers along your cheekbone. “You can’t sleep in forever, Eight. Today’s the day.”_

_Your eyes flutter open against your will, and you squint at the sunlight streaming directly into your face. Whoever had woken you moves to kneel in front of you, and your view is obscured by wild red curls and soft green eyes._

_“Hey, sweet thing.” Three murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You kiss back belatedly, whining when she pulls away. Someone laughs above her, and when you direct your gaze upwards, you meet Seven’s warm brown eyes._

_“Goodmorning, love.” He rumbles, voice deep in the cavity of his chest, and it makes the smile widen on your face. “You have to get up. Today’s the day.”_

_They both help to pull you out of bed, peppering little kisses onto your cheeks and shoulders as you struggle against your muddled head to stand. You glance down again to find yourself dressed, but Three and Seven are nowhere to be found._

_“You guys?” You call out into the hallway, blinking in shock when your voice echoes off of the walls. They’re bare, all of the pictures of your team missing. When you glance into the bedroom behind you, the bed is gone and packed boxes litter the floor. You take the stairs down into the living room two at a time, confusion growing when you notice that all of the decorations and furniture are missing from this room, too. “What’s going on?”_

_No one answers you, but you can hear voices coming from the backyard. You turn into the kitchen and move to go through the sunroom and out the backdoor, but you trip on something before you can get there. You steady yourself on the island counter and turn to see what had tripped you, and your confusion doubles at the sight of it._

_A single crutch lies innocently on the floor. You squint at it, feeling like you’ve seen it before, but you can’t place it. Why does the sight of it feel like home?_

_The voices get louder in the backyard, and you resume your course outside. The sun shines brightly into your eyes when you finally step onto the grass, and you have to shield your eyes against its intensity. When your vision clears, you find your entire team scattered throughout the yard._

_“Eight, hey!” Five calls, Six waving by his side. The two of them gesture you over to where they’re standing near Three’s sunflowers, and they pull you into a hug when you finally reach them._

_“You almost slept through it.” Six scolds, and your brows furrow._

_“Slept through what?” You ask, stepping back to stare at them both._

_Five smiles down at you, wrapping his free arm around Six’s waist. “Today’s the day, Eight. You wouldn’t want to miss it.”_

_“Miss what?” You ask again, and you frown as frustration builds in your chest. “What did I almost miss.”_

_“You have to say goodbye today, Eight.” Six says, his smile soft as he presses a gentle peck to the back of your hand. “Get a green one for us, okay?”_

_It feels like your feet have fallen out from underneath you at his words, and suddenly your foggy head grows heavy. What do they mean? There’s no reason for you to say goodbye. You open the eyes you don’t remember closing and come face to face with Two. She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at you, unwinding from the yoga position she’d been in._

_“I’m glad you came to talk to me.” She tells you, reaching out to place a hand on your elbow. Her golden bangles rustle in the slight breeze that blows between you both when her skin makes contact with yours. “I couldn’t think of anything to say the last time we saw each other.”_

_“I don’t understand.” Is your answering whisper. You don’t remember the last time you saw her._

_“Make sure they set off a pink one for me. Today’s the day.” She tells you, her full lips pulling into the smallest of smiles._

_There’s shouting just behind you, and you look over your shoulder to find Four and One wrestling in the grass. When you turn back, Two is absent from the place she’d just been, the ghost of her fingers still wrapped around her arm. Your feet take you over to your wrestling teammates, and you laugh loudly when they pull you into the frey._

_“There she is!” One exclaims, locking your arms behind your back as Four attempts to attack your middle. “We thought you were going to sleep through it!”_

_They release you and the three of you go tumbling into a heap, laughing as you begin to try and untangle yourselves. Four props himself up on his elbows and throws a lazy smile in your direction. “You wouldn’t want to miss this, kiddo. Today’s the day.”_

_Your smile falls, the same muddled feeling returning to your head. Something clatters to the ground beside you, and when you turn to look, you’re met with a plastic rainbow. It looks like it would light up if you plug it into the wall. You reach for it without realizing, gasping in shock when you blink and it disappears. One’s heavy hand clasps your shoulder, and he shakes you gently._

_“I’ll take red, if you can find it.” He tells you, the corners of his eyes pinching when he smiles at you._

_“I want purple!” Four calls, and you peer around One to look at him. He’s not there when your eyes meet the spot he’d been, and you notice the sudden absence of One’s hand on your shoulders. You glance around the small area of grass you’re sitting in, but you can’t find them anywhere._

_A familiar hand presses into the center of your spine, tapping three times with each finger. You twist around to face Seven, grinning at him when he grabs you by the waist of your jeans and drags you into his lap. He presses a gentle kiss to your lips and then rests his forehead on yours. There are footsteps to your left, and Three’s hands slide around the both of you. You turn and meet her lips eagerly, sitting back once you’re done and smiling softly when she kisses Seven as well._

_“Today’s the day.” Three tells you, reaching up to cradle your face in her hand. You lean into it, looking between them in confusion._

_“I don’t understand.” You murmur, searching their eyes for an answer._

_Seven grins at you, leaning forward to rub his stubble into your cheek. You shriek as you try to lean away from him, but there are two sets of arms holding you in place. He sighs once he’s had his fill of teasing you and removes one of his hands from your waist to trace the line of your jaw. “Today’s the day you have to say goodbye to us, love.” He whispers, and your heart tumbles out of your chest._

_“I don’t want to say goodbye.” You whisper, and their images blur as tears swim along your lower eyelid. “That’s not fair.”_

_“You’ll be okay, sweet thing.” Three replies gently, swiping your tears away with the pad of her thumb._

_Your breath is catching in your throat, and you’re finding it hard to talk to them. Something flutters on the wind, mimicking the motions of flower petals on the breeze. If you squint, they almost look like tickets of some kind._

_“We want you to be happy, sweet thing.” Three tells you, leaning her head onto Seven’s shoulder as they both watch you. “We want you to give all of that love in your heart to someone who deserves it.”_

_“But I don’t want to stop loving you.” You cry quietly, pleading with your eyes that they stop._

_Seven rumbles a soft laugh, his large hand coming up to wipe your tears in place of Three’s thumb. “No one ever said you had to stop loving us.” He soothes softly, the smile on his face warm enough to start a fire. “Do you think you could get me yellow?” He asks, and your eyebrows furrow._

_“I don’t-” You begin, but Three presses a finger to your lips to silence you._

_“I’d like blue.” She murmurs. She pulls her thumb away from your lips and leans forward to press a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, Seven doing the same on the other side. Three smiles sadly when she pulls away, letting her head fall back onto Seven’s shoulder._

_“Goodbye, Eight.” They murmur together, and when you blink, they’re gone._

_You glance around the area around you, and your confusion only grows when you realize you’re not in Three’s backyard anymore. You’re in the apartment you rarely used, and there’s a man lying on your couch holding a little blond baby. They’re both asleep, chests rising and falling slowly. Sunlight filters in through the blinds that are just barely opened, and the sight of the two of them bathed in the warm sunset glow has your heart soaring. Your hand moves of its own volition, cupping the man’s cheek gently._

_A smile blooms on your face. He feels like home._

\---

You’d woken that morning, eyes crusted shut with tears, in a bed that wasn’t your own. You’d eaten breakfast with a family that you weren’t related to, and then you’d spent the day learning about them. The five of you had set up the contraption that would set off all of the fireworks, collecting blankets to wrap yourselves in when it was time to set them off.

You’d made sure you personally set off six by yourself, grinning when the vibrant rainbow of colors burst along the sky. With each burst of color came a tear from your eye, yet the grin never fell from your face. A kind of bittersweet sorrow found purchase in your chest as the final firework you’d set off, a blue one that echoed on the air, finally fizzled out.

But then Remi had gone into labor halfway through the firework show, and everything had gone to shit.

“She’s not due for another two weeks!” Jolene shouts at you, blue eyes blown wide in panic. 

Remi, on her part, simply glares at her wife as she breathes through the contractions. You’ve been counting them, and they’re dangerously close together. Another set of fireworks goes off behind you, and you steady yourself as best you can. 

“Jo, you need to calm down.” You tell the blonde woman, grabbing her by the shoulders and forcing her to look into your eyes. “How far away is the nearest hospital from here?”

“It’s two hours away.” She answers swiftly, and she inhales deeply in an attempt to calm herself down. When you’re sure she’s not going to pass out, you approach Remi.

She’s wrapped in several blankets, though she’s stopped trying to hold them up and is instead holding the bottom of her stomach. She breathes deeply, locking eyes with you, and her brown ones are slightly panicked. “What do I do?” She asks, and you have to steady yourself once more.

“We have a few options.” You tell her seriously, reaching out to pull the hair tie off of Jolene’s wrist and then using it to secure the blankets around Remi’s shoulders. “We can call an ambulance and wait for them to get here-”

“Pass.” Remi gasps, wincing when another contraction hits. “This baby won’t wait that long.”

“We could try and drive there ourselves. It’d be quicker than waiting for an ambulance, and you’d still get the hospital care you need.”

“I like that idea.” Jolene interjects, but she quiets under the withering look Remi pins her with.

Remi finishes riding out her contraction and glances over her shoulder, trying to spot her parents in the house. “Any other options?” She asks you.

You offer her an awkward smile, flexing your fingers by your sides. “You can try and have the baby in the house.”

Silence descends on the three of you, the only thing breaking it being the explosion of the fireworks behind you. After what feels like a decade, Remi finally makes a decision.

“Jolene, can you drive us to the hospital?” She asks her wife, and Jolene’s jaw drops.

“Why do _I_ have to drive?”

“You need to stay focused or you’re going to panic.” Remi explains. “And I can _not_ handle you panicking right now.” You can tell Jolene wants to argue, but Remi’s words must ring true because she doesn’t attempt to protest anymore. Remi turns to you, face deathly serious. “You’re going to sit in the back with me until we get there. Can you run ahead and tell my parents what’s happening?”

You nod your affirmation and take off, sprinting toward the back porch. You skip the steps and land heavy on the floorboards, nearly slamming into Dad when he comes out of the door. Mom stands behind him, concern written on her face. “Remi’s in labor. She wants Jo to drive her to the hospital in my SUV. Will you guys be okay riding behind us?”

“Absolutely.” Mom tells you, beginning to tug a thicker coat on.

“Will she be okay?” Dad asks at the same time, and you smile as soothingly as you can.

“Should it come to it, I know how to deliver a baby.” You reassure, and you watch both parents visibly relax. “But we should be fine.”

The three of you meet Jolene and Remi in the driveway, and you toss your keys to Jolene while Remi’s parents help her get situated in the backseat. You exhale slowly, taking the blankets that Mom removes from Remi’s shoulders and folding them in your lap before you climb in beside her. Jolene readjusts your mirrors and mimics the way you’re breathing, likely to calm herself down as well.

Another contraction hits Remi just as Jolene is starting the car, and you offer the laboring woman your hand. She crushes it in her grip, and when she turns to glare at you, all you do is smile. “You’re doing great.” You tell her, and she does her best to smile back. “Do you know where we’re going, Jo?” You ask her, and she meets your eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I memorized the way the second time we went.” She assures, and you nod. You glance down at the clock, blinking in shock when you see it’s only just after 8pm. It seemed so much later, but you suppose that’s just because of how quickly it gets dark in the winter time. 

You’re twenty or so minutes away from the hospital, the two hour drive nearly finished, when Remi lets go of your hand to grab your collar instead, dragging you toward her in panic. “The baby’s coming.” She hisses, and you suck in a quick breath as you swear. “What do we do?” She’s growing frantic, and her nerves are setting Jolene off as well.

“We deliver the baby.” You tell them both sternly, putting on your big boy pants and taking charge. “I’ve helped deliver a baby before, and as long as your pregnancy has been healthy so far, we should be fine. Has it?”

“Yes. It’s been great so far.” 

You nod, unbuckling your seatbelt and reaching over the backseat into the trunk and pulling your bag open. You pull a number of clean shirts out and lay them over top of the backseat to use, and then you stuff the blankets behind Remi as you turn her to face you. “Lift those skirts, girlfriend.” You tease, helping arrange her legs as she does so. “Time for the exposé.”

At Remi’s answering nod, you pull her underwear down to her ankles and you pinch your lips together. “The baby is crowning.” You tell her calmly, and you have to angle one of your legs to hold hers in place. “You’re going to have to push when your next contraction hits, okay?”

“Wait, we’re pushing?” Jolene exclaims, looking at Remi over her shoulder.

“This is in no way a _we_ situation!” Remi shouts back, and you have to refrain from laughing.

“We’re almost there, can’t you wait?” Jolene pleads, and she twitches under the scathing look she receives. “At least hold my hand?” She asks, and Remi’s face softens as she locks hands with her wife.

You watch them both fondly, but you have to break the sweet exchange in order to get Remi to focus on you. “You push on the next contraction, alright? Ten seconds, and then you stop.”

“Pushing now!” Remi cries, and you reach forward to catch the babies head. They toss their head to the side, and you refrain from cringing when more of the amniotic fluid gets on your hands. There’s already quite a bit of it seeping into the fabric of your car seats. Remi takes a moment to breathe, and you use one of the shirts to gently wipe away some of the fluid from the baby’s face. You’re just about to speak when Remi cries out in panic. “They’re going back in!”

You’re awed by the time both of the baby’s shoulders are in your hands, and they slip fluidly out the rest of the way. Remi gasps in tired relief when you lay the crying baby out on her now exposed chest, and you wipe the baby down quickly before wrapping both of them in your shirts. “Congratulations.” You tell them both, making eye contact with a teary-eyed Jolene in the front seat. You can see the hospital in the distance. “You’re now mothers of a beautiful baby girl.”

“A little girl.” Jolene breathes in disbelief, and you grin at her through the rearview mirror. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“We’re moms, Jo.” Remi croaks, squeezing Jolene’s hand as tears begin to slip from her eyes. 

“We are.” Jolene sobs, and you feel tears pushing at your own eyes. 

You try to blink the tears away, but they keep coming. You reach into the front seat and grab Jolene’s phone, unlocking it to call the hospital and tell them you’re coming. You’ve never delivered a placenta before, and you most certainly are not trying to now. It will leave blood on your car seats, and even though they’re black, you know it will be difficult to get the blood out. 

“Pull up near the emergency entrance, Jo.” You tell your friend, slipping her phone into your pocket and turning back to Remi. You take one of the unused blankets and tuck it around the two of them, smiling at the baby girl when she scrunches up her face in response to the touch.

The nurses help Remi and the baby out of your SUV and into the hospital, a frantic Jolene following behind. Mom and Dad rush after them, and one of the nurses is kind enough to take the keys to their old truck and drive it behind you until you can find a couple parking spaces. The nurse leads you back inside after handing you the truck’s keys, and then you’re left in the waiting room of the maternity ward.

To think, a year ago today, you’d been bleeding to death in a warehouse. If you wanted to get technical, you were likely on the operating table of a hospital over an hour away at exactly this time last year. You’d witnessed so much death exactly a year ago, so much so that you thought you’d never recover. All your presence brought you was death.

And now?

Well, now you’d helped deliver a _life._

It brings a smile to your face, even if the tears keep falling. You pull Jolene’s phone out of your pocket and put your number into her contacts before dialling a number you’d memorized by heart. Hopefully she’s not busy right now.

Emily doesn’t answer, and though you’re not sure if it’s because you’re calling from an unknown number or because she’s busy, you don’t let it bother you. You’ll tell her about it when you get back to work once your leave is over. You drum your fingers against your knees as you wait for someone to come get you, stopping for a moment when you remember that you still hadn’t technically washed your hands after delivering the baby. Sure, you’d wiped them off on one of your shirts, but you hadn’t actually used water and soap.

You can’t stop yourself from staring at your reflection, mouth falling open when you see the woman staring back at you. You look like _you_ again. Sure, you’re looking a little frazzled, and you’ve definitely lost more weight that you’re comfortable with, but the eyes that stare back at you are _yours._ No longer some empty husk of a color you once knew. You can’t stop smiling.

A nurse is waiting for you when you come back to the waiting room, and you grin at her as she leads you into the room where they’d put Remi. She and Jolene look up at you from where they’d been talking to the doctor, matching smiles blooming on their faces. Mom and Dad fawn over the baby in their arms. 

“Do you know what time the baby was born?” The doctor asks you, and you’re glad you’d made sure to glance at the clock when you’d finally settled the little girl on her mother’s chest.

“10:18.” You respond easily, and you step into your friends’ waiting arms when they reach out to hug you. It’s a little awkward, but you’re learning how to accept physical touch again. It had been your love language, after all. 

The doctor writes a few more things down, and then he and the nurses step out of the room to give you all a moment. Dad comes over and passes the newborn to you, settling her down into your arms with a soft ease. The smile that blooms on your face makes your cheeks hurt.

“What’s her name?” You ask them, unable to tear your eyes away from her little round cheeks. Dark curls sit atop her head, and she puckers her lips as she stretches in your arms.

“We were… uh…” Jolene trails off, suddenly sounding uncertain. You turn to look at her, brows furrowing when she sinks further onto the hospital bed beside her wife.

“We wanted to name her after you.” Remi finishes, and you feel like you’d just had the floor ripped out from underneath you. The only reason you can make yourself stay upright is for the safety of the baby girl snoozing in your arms. “After all, none of this would have been possible without you.”

You open your mouth to protest, but it seems Jolene has finally gained her confidence back. “No, don’t argue. I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for you. You know that.” Her stern blue eyes grow soft, and her face breaks into a grateful smile. “You just delivered our baby. If saving my life wasn’t enough, you made sure the only girl I’ll ever love more than my wife made it here safely. It would be an _honor_ to let her share your name.”

“I…” you start, but you have to stop. You could have never predicted you’d end up here. “I don’t know what to say.” You finally settle on, confusion seeping into your very bones.

“You could say yes.” Remi grins, and Jolene matches it. You give the two of them their daughter and take a step back, watching them interact as a family. It fills you with a sweet pang of longing.

These women had known you for all of two days, yet they wanted to name their newborn daughter after you. How did that make any sense? The answer is it doesn’t, but when has anything ever made sense for you? They stare at you hopefully, smiles soft, and you can feel your resolve crumbling. 

“I’d be honored to share my name with your little girl.” You finally say, and the two women grin at you. Mom and Dad pull you into a hug, and you return it just a little less awkwardly than you had the first time. Tears swell in your eyes again, and you tuck yourself further into the hug with a tiny hiccup. “Thank you.” You whisper, and the four sweet responses you get double your tears before you can stop them. 

They nickname her Daffodil, after the flower of new beginnings, and when she opens her sweet eyes to squint blearily up at you, you feel the previously unending rush of anxiety settle quietly in your chest.

In the field nearly two hours away, the last firework explodes in a beautiful array of color.

* * *

**Closure, noun.**

  * **A feeling that an emotional or traumatic experience has been resolved.**



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> she did it. i'm so proud of her ;-;
> 
> also idk jack shit about child birth so uh oops


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your leave technically isn't over yet, but you miss your team so much.

You finally get your phone charged, and with it come a number of texts from Hotch. There are also quite a few voicemails from your team, but the newest text, sent less than half an hour ago, unfortunately takes importance. There’s a case not far from the hotel you’re staying at, and even though your leave doesn’t technically end until tomorrow, there’s nothing stopping you from helping. 

The soapy water you’d been using to scrub the amniotic fluid out of your back seat is dumped into the sink in your hotel room before you change into something more professional -jeans and one of your FBI sweatshirts aren’t exactly professional, but they’re better than sweatpants and a giant hoodie- and then you’re on your way to the police station. You smile sweetly to the police officers when you get there, flashing your badge and explaining that you were already in the area.

_ “I’m actually already at the station, what do you want me to do?” _ You text Hotch, thumbing through the case file while you wait for a response. You’re in the midst of laying out the evidence pictures in order, trying to make sense of the strange carvings the unsub is leaving in his victim’s stomachs, when your phone goes off.

_ “Head to the newest crime scene with one of the officers.” _ Hotch’s text reads, and you hum to yourself in agreement. You have such a love for trying to puzzle out crime scenes. Another text comes through from Hotch, and the sight of it brings a smile to your face.  _ “Good to have you back.” _

_ “Good to be back.” _ You respond quickly, meeting up with one of the officers and heading toward his cruiser. He introduces himself as Darren Jones, and you hop into the passenger’s seat of his cruiser happily.

“This guy’s sick, let me tell you.” Darren explains, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Carves up these sweet girls like they’re pumpkins or something.”

You flip through a few more of the older crime scene photos, frowning at the hand shaped bruises on these girls’ bodies. There are prints made of blood as well, likely made post mortem. If you squint, they almost look like they’re different sizes, and they’re present on every girl. You text that little detail to Hotch, fully aware that the team has probably already figured that out, and then you climb out of the cruises. The crime scene isn’t that far away from the station.

“Who lives here?” You ask Darren as you step over a strip of police tape, slipping a pair of gloves onto your hands before you open the front door.

“Belongs to a guy named Harper Drake. Mid-40s, white guy, station used to get complaints from his wife a lot before she left him.” He tells you as the two of you pick your way through the house. “He’s our number one suspect, but you already knew that.”

You did know that, but you’re still glad he told you. 

The kitchen has a trail of blood leading from the backdoor toward the stairs, so you step out of the backdoor to head to the source. A meaty fist connects with the center of your face not even a second after you’ve stepped outside, and the impact sends you careening back into Darren. You recover a moment later and throw yourself into a sprint, chasing after the man who’d thought it was a smart move to punch you.

He darts down an alleyway and you follow, gun drawn as you round the corner. Harper Drake stands before you, a small pocket knife pointed at you in his hand. You watch him warily, apprehension coloring your face as Darren comes to a halt beside you, gun drawn as well. There’s no way this guy is your unsub, he’s shaking too badly to have done the kind of damage that the victims faced. 

“Mr. Drake, I need you to put the knife down.” You tell him, keeping your voice somewhere between soothing and stern. You lower your gun and slip it back into its holster, raising your hands as you take a tentative step toward him. “We need to take you back to the station to ask you a couple questions.”

He shakes his head no, swiping the knife at you a few times as though that would deter you. “You just want to arrest me. I’m innocent.”

“You punched a federal agent in the face, Mr. Drake.” Darren deadpans from his place behind you.

“I’m not gonna let a fed take me in.” Drake sneers, rushing you in his panic. You dodge easily, knocking the knife from his hand with your elbow and using your momentum to bring you both to the ground. He struggles against you, but you’re trained in taking down guys that are twice as big as you, and then keeping them down. You could have probably been some kind of freaky assassin in another life.

“That was really impressive.” Darren comments as you cuff Drake, his gun still trained on his head. 

You grin up at him, pulling Drake to his feet and ushering him toward the cruiser. “It’s all in the training, trust me.” Once Drake is safely in the backseat, you tug your sweatshirt over your head and use it to wipe away the blood that’s coming from your nose and a cut under your eye, wincing slightly when it stings. Darren offers you his water bottle to help in the cleaning, and you don’t miss the way his eyes keep flickering to your biceps and chest.

“You don’t seem like we just got the guy who killed those girls.” Darren mumbles to you, and you shrug as you dab at the cut under your eye. When you glance over your shoulder, Drake is staring forlornly out the window.

“This guy was too mentally weak to do any of that to those girls.” You murmur back, giving a huff of frustration when your nose keeps bleeding. You give up on trying to stop the bleeding, simply glad it isn’t broken again. “The punch was probably a lucky shot, he could barely point the knife in my direction.”

Darren scowls, pulling into the station’s parking lot. There are a few government issued SUVs in a couple of the parking spaces, and you grow giddy at the thought of seeing your team. You miss them. “So what? We’ve got the wrong guy?” Darren asks you, and you shake your head.

“This might be the unsub’s partner.” You reply softly, and then the two of you escort Drake into the station. You break away when more officers approach Darren to help him with Drake, and you make your way toward the conference room that the team has been given.

You nudge the door open, and you freeze when all eyes turn to you. The only person who looks like they knew you were here is Hotch, though Rossi moves past his surprise rather quickly. “Um, surprise?” You offer, shrugging one of your shoulders and swiping the wipe you’d acquired under your nose once more. It comes away less bloody than the last time. “The owner of the house where the last girl was murdered, Harper Drake, we found him. He ambushed us at the backdoor.”

“Do you think his hands could fit the prints on some of the bodies?” Rossi asks you, and you nod as you hop up onto one of the side tables and swing your legs.

“The ones that were made postmortem? Absolutely. Drake could barely point a knife at me, there’s no way he could have hurt those girls while they were alive.”

The team is still watching you, eyes wide in uncertainty and concern, and you feel like you’re missing something. You’re just not sure what.

Morgan clears his throat, picking up one of the pictures from the first crime scene and laying it beside the other two. Each one clearly depicts the victim’s corpses. “The handprints that were made postmortem align with the unsub showing signs of remorse. Drake could fit that profile, but that still leaves us with the actual murderer.”

-

It’s nearing two in the morning when Hotch finally tells you all to head back to your hotel rooms to get some sleep, and you’re more than ready to do so. You’re finally catching up on the sleep you’ve been missing, smiling into the mirror each morning as the dark circles under your eyes slowly but surely disappeared. You’ve just come out of the stairwell and are about to slide the keycard into your door when the elevator door opens at the end of the hall and a majority of your team steps out. You don’t like the way they’re all looking at you.

“G’night, guys.” You call down the hallway, scanning your card in the slot and pushing your door open. Morgan’s boot slips in between the door and the frame, preventing it from shutting behind you, and you kiss sleep goodbye. “Okay then. Why don’t you all come inside.”

They file in, JJ and Spencer sitting on the bed you’re not sleeping on, Emily leaning up against the tv stand, and Morgan stands behind one of the armchairs near the door. You exhale heavily through your nose and sit on the bed you’ve been sleeping on to lean against the headboard, watching the four of them watch you. This is an interrogation.

“Did something happen while I was on leave?” You finally ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You’d know if you checked your phone.” Morgan shoots back, and your jaw drops.

“I finally got a charger for it this morning. The case took precedence.” Your brows furrow as your gaze flits between your teammates. “Seriously, did something happen? Why do I feel like I’m on trial?”

JJ speaks next, the tears swimming in her eyes difficult to miss. “Gutierrez told us what happened to your old team.” She tells you, and you can feel your heart leave your body. Oh. “He said that you were going to kill yourself last year, and when you weren’t at your apartment and you wouldn’t answer our calls, coupled with the way you’ve been acting recently, his claims that you might try again this year-” She doesn’t finish her sentence, but you get it. The more you think about it, the more compelling of a case it makes. 

“Garcia couldn’t  _ find you.” _ Spencer breathes, and you cringe. “The hotel you’d been in was empty, your phone wasn’t on, your card wasn’t getting used. We couldn’t find you.”

Emily regards you apprehensively, eyes somewhere between hurt and angry. “I got a call from an unknown number two days ago. Penelope traced it to a hospital in Harrisville, New York. Was that you?”

“It was, but I wasn’t-”

“Did you-” Morgan cuts in, and you sit up straighter in an attempt to prevent them from cutting you off again.

“No! I need you all to understand that I’m not in that headspace anymore. I haven’t been for a while. I just- I’m not like that. I have too much to live for. I’m sorry I scared you all so badly.” They don’t seem to believe you, and you drag your cold fingertips down your face. “What? Do you want a play-by-play of what I did while I was on leave? Will that make you feel better?”

Morgan is already pulling out his phone, dialling a number as he stares at you. “That’d be great.” He puts the phone to his ear, and you can tell by the smile on his face that he’s calling Penelope. “Hey, Babygirl. Our rogue teammate is finally going to tell us where she’s been.” He puts it on speaker, and you cringe when you hear your friend sniffle through the phone.

“Are you okay?” Penelope asks you, drawing a small smile onto your face. You’re going to give her the biggest hug when you get back.

“I am, I promise.” You lean back against the headboard again, drawing your knees to your chest. “Where do you want me to start?”

Emily finally sits down at the edge of the bed you’re on, tucking one of her legs under her. “From the moment you left. We thought you were quitting.”

You shake your head, but her concern keeps the tiny smile on your face. “No. I was making sure I was cleared to leave, and I lost track of time. I left for New York as soon as I left Hotch’s office.”

“What did you do after you checked into the hotel?” JJ asks you, watching with now dry eyes, and you release a breath you hadn’t known you were holding.

“I might have to start from further back, honestly. Is that okay?” You continue after your team either nods or verbalizes their affirmation. “My old team and I- the last hostage situation we worked, they sent me in first. I was supposed to try to negotiate the hostage’s release one more time, just to spare any extra bloodshed, but it seemed my luck had run out. There were more guys than we thought there’d be, and they subdued me and took me into the basement. I don’t really know exactly how they got the rest of my team, but I’m sure they used me as some kind of bargaining chip. I was the baby of the team, and they would do anything for me.”

You see the way all eyes flick to Spencer, and you know they’re thinking the same thing. He’s the team’s baby, although you suppose you sort of are, too.

“They took us into the basement. I guess they’d figured out by that point that they weren’t going to survive this, and they wanted to do as much damage as they could. They gutted us one by one, going in order.” You lift up your shirt and show them the mass of scar tissue that covers the vast majority of your stomach, and you’re glad Penelope isn’t here to see it. “I was last. I wasn’t supposed to survive, but backup airlifted me to a hospital nearby, and somehow the doctor put me back together. I actually went to talk to her after I checked in at the hotel. We met up at a little cafe near the hospital.”

“You bought a hot chocolate.” Penelope tells you, and it brings the little smile back to your face. Morgan finally sits down in the armchair near the door.

You laugh despite yourself, rolling your eyes as you drum your fingers on your calf. “I did indeed. It’s good to know I have someone looking after my purchases.” You somber then, gaze bouncing between your friends. “We talked for a bit, maybe 15 minutes tops. She made me realize some things about myself. I called her the other day, just to check in, and you know what I found out? My heart didn’t stop once on that operating table. I woke up so angry that I’d been saved, but my heart never stopped beating. It was kind of refreshing to find out.”

“I slept through most of the next day, if I’m being honest. Cried a lot the night before, tired myself out, and slept. I woke up the morning before the anniversary and went to visit the warehouse they’d kept us in. I don’t know why, but I did. I met one of the hostages there, Jolene, and she told me her story, and I ended up going home with her to meet her family. They were going to set off fireworks for my team.”

“So why were you at the hospital?” Spencer asks you, and the smile that blooms on your face could crack your cheeks open.

You reach into your back pocket and pull your wallet out, slipping the newest polaroid out of the little card slot and smiling down at it. “Jolene’s wife went into labor in the middle of us all setting off fireworks. I had to deliver their daughter in the backseat of my car, and I was trying to call Emily from Jolene’s phone to tell her about it, since my phone was dead.” You pass the polaroid around, watching their faces soften as they take in the sight of you holding the newborn in your arms. “They named her after me.”

“But what about these last few days?” JJ inquires, gaze soft as she stares down at the polaroid in her hand.

“I’ve honestly just been sleeping and sight-seeing.” You tell them. “It’s a coincidence that you all happened to be on a case so close to the hotel where I was staying.”

“So you weren’t planning to- you know.” Penelope says through the phone, trailing off when she can’t bring herself to say it.

You shake your head before you remember she can’t see you. “I wasn’t, and I don’t plan to. I’m actually kind of happy to be alive right now, believe it or not. I have this really great group of people that I’ve been missing a lot this past week, and the seven of them make me enjoy getting up in the morning.”

The polaroid makes its way back into your hands, and you tuck it back into your wallet with a soft sigh. Emily begins to laugh, and soon the rest of you join in. “Sorry for cornering you just now.” She tells you, and you shuffle across the bed to pull her into a hug.

“You’re all good. While I’m absolutely going to have a talk with Gutierrez about minding his own business, I’m not upset with any of you.”

You promise Penelope a hug when you get back, and then you exchange one with Morgan and JJ before everyone begins filing out of your hotel room to actually get some rest before the next morning. Spencer hangs back after exchanging a few words with JJ, and when he turns to you, he still seems hesitant.

“I owe you an apology.” You tell him before he can speak, sinking down onto the edge of the unused bed and trying not to press into his side when he sits beside you. “You deserved an explanation for why I ran, and I was too much of a coward to give you one. I’m sorry.”

“You were also extremely sleep deprived and more than a little emotionally compromised.” Spencer comments helpfully, and you snort.

“Don’t go making excuses for me, Pretty Boy. The least I could have done was explain that I was too exhausted to have the conversation with you at the time, but I couldn’t even manage that, and that was shitty of me.”

“It was.” 

You snicker, glancing up at him and feeling your chest warm when you find a small smile on his face. “When I told you I couldn’t do this with you, I didn’t mean it as in ‘I don’t like you’. Because I do like you. A lot. It was more of a ‘Hey, I’m kind of afraid to form a connection with you because I’m not great with emotional intimacy.’ kind of way.”

Spencer turns to stare at you, eyes wide. “You like me?”

“Yes? Why wouldn’t I? Have you met yourself? You’re so beyond perfect, it’s actually terrifying.”

“I’m not perfect.” He mutters, and all you do is shrug.

“Maybe not to you, but you can’t do much to convince me otherwise.” You nudge your leg over until it’s pressed against the side of his, and a small frown blooms on your lips. “I say all this to say that I’m sorry for how I treated you. You’re such a sweet guy, and while I personally have a lot of doubts about what I can offer you, some very wise women told me I needed to let you make your own decision, and-”

Spencer laughs softly, and when you turn your head up to look at him, he’s already staring down at you. The smile on his face makes your insides twist around. “You’re rambling.” He informs you, and you huff as you look anywhere but at him. “And I accept your apology.”

You sigh, turning your face away and flipping your palms up in your lap. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t.” 

“I’m glad you didn’t die, for what it’s worth.” Spencer moves his hand from his lap and hesitantly links his fingers through yours. You marvel at the way they fit together. “I can’t imagine having never met you, I feel like I’ve known you for ages.”

“I  _ have _ lived in the apartment below you for a few years now.” You comment offhandedly, grinning when Spencer bumps you with his shoulder.

“You know what I meant.”

Silence falls between the two of you, and all you do is stroke your thumb over Spencer’s knuckle. His hand is warm in your own, his body heat permeating through his sweater vest and into your side. You glance at the clock, sighing when you finally see what time it is.

“It’s late.” You comment quietly. “You should probably head back to your room. We have to go in early for the case.”

“You’re right.” Spencer affirms, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. You don’t let go either, so you’re just as compliant in keeping him here. “You said you like me.”

You smile down at your feet. “I do.”

“And I like you.” He informs you, meeting your eyes when you turn your gaze up to him with a bashful grin.

“That’s good. It’d be kind of awkward if you didn’t.” You respond, and your smile grows when he huffs a small laugh. Your face falls ever so slightly, and his face does the same. “I’m kind of fucked in the head, Spencer. Definitely not as much as I was, but I don’t want to put you through any unnecessary strife. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“That’s okay.” he tells you softly, tilting his head in a gesture so reminiscent of a puppy that your heart soars. “I want to help you, if you’ll let me. I want to work with you, and I’ll wait for you.”

Your smile grows a little teary, and you lean to the side to rest your head on his shoulder. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” You ask him, bringing your unoccupied hand up to wipe the traitorous tear that escapes down your cheek.

“You deserve something nice in your life.”

You slip your hand out of his and turn to face him, pushing up on your knees and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. His arms wind around your waist, and all you can do is sigh in content. You press a gentle kiss to the side of his head, smiling when you feel him do the same to your shoulder. “I’m so lucky that that nice thing is you.”

-

The case closes out around noon the next day, and after writing a few reports, it’s time to leave. Your duffel bag is already waiting for you in the trunk of your SUV. You’re having a quiet conversation with Rossi before you split ways from the team -they flew here, you still have to drive back to your apartment- when Darren approaches you. You break away from Rossi to meet him, stopping in front of the officer with a smile.

“So I was thinking,” he begins, plastering a charming smile on his face, “why don’t you and I grab dinner sometime? Maybe you could show me some of that training of yours.”

“I don’t actually live here, sorry.” You answer immediately, giving a half shrug as you regard him. “Also, no, thank you. I’m spoken for.”

Darren’s face twists into something angry, and you realize with a sigh that he’s not going to accept your answer. “I don’t see any ring on your finger.” He snaps, and you can hear Rossi sigh quietly from where he’s still leaning against one of the SUVs behind you.

“Should’ve just taken no for an answer.” Rossi mutters to Hotch behind you when your Unit Chief approaches, and you have to fight a smile.

“You’re about to see my fist in your face if you don’t drop the subject, Officer Jones.” You respond sweetly, offering him a grin that’s somewhere between sarcastic and sinister. He huffs as he turns and heads back into the police station, and you turn back to Rossi and Hotch with a satisfied smirk. The rest of your team has joined them, and you flash them all a thumbs up.

Morgan snorts, rolling his eyes as he watches you. “You would’ve actually hit him.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Emily answers for you. “That was hot.”

“At least someone here appreciates me.” You comment offhandedly, throwing in a wink as an afterthought. “I’ll meet you guys back at base?”

“You’re not coming?” JJ asks, to which you shake your head. 

“I have to drive my car home still. I’ve got a free seat if anyone wants to ride with me.”

It shouldn’t really surprise you when Spencer ends up in your passenger seat, but it’s been so long since he’s ridden with you. He seems just as shocked when he gets in and has to adjust the seat to accommodate his height. There was a long stretch of time, a little over four months, where he’d been the only person to occupy that seat, and he could just get in and you’d drive off. It’d done bad things to your chest to watch Jolene adjust the seat when you’d driven you both to her home, but you hadn’t said anything.

Now though, with Spencer back in your passenger seat, you release a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The two of you talk the entire time, making awful jokes and singing along to songs on the radio. You glance over at him every now and then, the smile never leaving your face when he’s still there each time, completely at ease as he reclines in his seat and tells you facts about things you didn’t even know you found interesting. Everything is interesting when it’s Spencer telling you about it.

You stop at the BAU before you drive back to your apartment building, practically tackling Penelope in a hug the moment you see her, although you’re careful of the high heels she somehow manages to wear everyday.

“I’m so glad you’re safe, Little Bird.” She whispers, and you press kiss after kiss to her cheeks.

“Safety is my middle name, Pen.” 

You make sure to stop by the archives, Spencer trailing behind you as you visit your archivists. Then the two of you are on your way back to your apartment building, poking fun at each other in quiet glee. 

You’ve just unlocked your apartment door, leaving it open for Spencer, when you notice a few of your lamps are on.

“Ah, shit.” You hiss, dumping your bag on the floor with a sigh. “I can’t believe these have been on the entire time I was gone.”

Spencer shuffles awkwardly beside you, a blush slowly creeping onto his cheeks. You pin him with a questioning look, and his blush darkens. “We came and searched your apartment when Gutierrez told us about what day it was.” He tells you hesitantly, looking anywhere but at you. You can tell there’s more to it, but you don’t push him. At least, not until you flip the light on in your bedroom and you’re faced with your disheveled bed. You know for a fact that you’d at least folded your blankets back up before you left.

“Have you been sleeping here?” You ask Spencer, a grin growing on your face when his cheeks flush further and he refuses to answer you. “Spencer?”

But then there are tears gathering in his eyes, and your face falls. He keeps his eyes locked on the back of your couch, hands fisted around the strap of his bag. “Garcia couldn’t find you.” He repeats his words from your interrogation the night before, but this time he sounds far less angry. A tear slips down his cheek, and you cross the few feet between you to wipe it away with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “I thought you were  _ dead _ .” 

“Spencer, baby, I’m so sorry.” You breathe, catching more of his tears on the cuffs of your sweatshirt - _ his _ sweatshirt- as you try to get him to meet your eyes. “But I’m right here, okay? And I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t make a promise like that.” Spencer mutters bitterly, but he presses his face further into your hands.

“Ah, but I can, and I just did.” You answer softly. You pull his head down until his face is tucked into your shoulder, cradling the back of his head with one hand and rubbing between his shoulders with the other. His arms come around your middle, clinging to you tightly, and you can slowly feel the wetness that comes with tears start to seep into the material that covers your shoulder, but it doesn’t bother you. You simply rock the two of you from side to side, whispering soft reassurances into the air.

You hate the sound of Spencer crying, you decide. The sound of his barely muffled whimpers fills your insides with a visceral kind of discomfort, partially from the fact that you can’t solve this problem with your fists. You’d been so much better with words, once upon a time, but you weren’t that girl anymore. Especially not right now. All you can offer Spencer is your continued physical presence, and you know without a doubt that you would give it to him each and every day.

He calms down after a while, and although you step away, you keep your hands on his forearms and he does the same. 

“Do you want to stay here tonight?” You ask him softly, a smile blooming on your cheeks when Spencer’s lips break into a smile of his own. His nod of affirmation fills your heart with warmth. 

When you collapse into your bed after dinner, pillowed in your sheets that smell like him, you can’t wipe the smile from your face. It grows larger still when he curls into your side and rests his head atop your chest. From this moment until your alarm goes off for work in the morning, your heart beats for him and him alone, if only to remind him that you’re not going anywhere. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha howdy  
> i hope im conveying eight and spencer's relationship properly. like, they both like each other, but theyre both Very Aware that now isnt the best time, so theyre settling for being friends. friends that like each other and arent exactly the best with boundaries, but friends. theyre cute.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something about cases that involve children that truly sober the team. They break down the few barriers you all put up, giving way to unfiltered conversation and shared secrets. This case is no different.

“I swear, Derek, if you pick up my weights _one more time_ …” 

He snickers, bending down to lift the bar you’d just added two more plates to. “You’ll what?” He grunts as he uses your bar to squat, his brows furrowed in concentration. 

“I’ll lift _you_.” You shoot back, crossing your arms with a grin. Morgan scoffs, letting your bar drop back onto the mat with a heavy thud.

“Nope, Reid already said you threatened him with that, it won’t work on me.” He responds flippantly, spotting you as you squat with the bar as well. 

You stop halfway through your set, dropping the bar and turning to face your friend with an evil smirk. You size him up, raising an eyebrow as your smirk morphs into a grin. “50 bucks says I carry you all the way back to the bullpen.” 

Morgan starts to take the plates off his bar to put them back, eyeing you as you do the same. “I’ll double it, but I doubt it.” 

“So I’m about to make 100 dollars? Sweet.”

It’s been a few months since your leave ended, and your team is _finally_ returning to normal. They’d spent your first month back walking on eggshells around you- save for Rossi and Hotch, who you decided were the only sane ones left. Spencer and JJ spent quite a bit of time in your apartment, or you spent time at their homes. Emily would always rope you into going out with Morgan and Penelope. The five of them would be upon you the moment you looked even the slightest bit upset, and it got really old really quick.

The second month only got better when you locked them in the conference room and explained in great detail that, while you loved them all very much, you were going to beat them over the head with a pringles can if they didn’t knock it off. Morgan had tried to protest, and he’d been whacked in retaliation. The second month had also been the month you’d taken up running with Hotch, and you’d gotten to know Jack because of it. Babysitting that kid became the highlight of your life.

The third and final month had seen you become workout buddies with Morgan, the two of you joined by Emily on occasion. Today you’d been trying to show Morgan the new weight you’d finally been able to squat, but now you’re cutting your lunch-break workout short because of a bet.

“How’re you lifting me, Speed Racer?” Morgan taunts, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest. You tug your sweatshirt back on and shake out your arms to get the sleeves to settle.

“Princess or fireman, babe.” You taunt back, striking a pose and flexing even though you’re currently dwarfed by your sweatshirt. “You get to pick since you’re the one who’s about to be carried.”

He uncrosses his arms and shrugs with a half smirk. “Fireman.”

“Loosen up then, big guy. Hope you enjoy the ride.” You slide into position and level your shoulder into his hip, locking your right arm around his leg and pulling him over you with your left. You rise back to your full height with little more than a harsh exhale, delighting in the girlish squeal Morgan releases once his feet leave the ground. “Having fun back there?” You tease.

“How long have you been able to do this?” Morgan exclaims, gripping your hand tightly as you spin around to leave the gym and head back to the bullpen.

You smack his ass with your unoccupied hand, laughing loudly when he swears. “My old Unit Chief made it a requirement of our training. We all knew it was just because he liked being carried places, but it actually came in handy when one of us got hurt on the job. The only person I struggled to carry was Five, but that’s only because the guy was a giant.” 

“I swear to God, if you smack my head on that doorframe-” Morgan warns, making you laugh yet again.

“Don’t worry so much, you big baby.” You slip sideways through the door into the stairwell, nodding at the few agents you pass as you climb the stairs. “Aren’t you glad we went this way instead of the elevator? So many more people would’ve seen you losing this bet.”

“Fuck, I forgot all about the bet. I hate you.” Morgan responds tiredly. You smile to yourself as you nudge the door open on the BAU’s floor, walking down the hall and through the glass doors. 

The team looks up when you enter, expressions of shock and unadulterated amusement filtering onto their faces. You still refuse to set Morgan down even when he begins to struggle against you. You throw a grin at Spencer, delighting in the little red flush that blooms on his cheeks.

“Still think I can’t carry you?” You tease, and you can feel heat spread in your chest when he swallows hard and shakes his head no. Your eyes trace the bobbing of his adam’s apple, cheeks flushing when JJ raises a knowing eyebrow at you. You clear your throat and finally set Morgan down, grinning when he huffs and pulls a 20 out of his wallet.

“I’ll get you the rest later.” He grumbles under his breath, but there’s a smile poking at the corners of his mouth.

You pocket the 20, high fiving Penelope and Emily before you flop back into your chair. You’re a smidge winded, but you’re not going to give Morgan the satisfaction of knowing that. The five of you tease each other back and forth for the remainder of your lunch break, the conversation continuing as you all settle back into your own spaces. You’re just reaching over to get Emily’s opinion on one of the case files when JJ walks between your desks and waves a folder around.

“Guess my cash is gonna have to wait.” You comment as you push yourself out of your chair, clicking your pen shut and slipping it into your pocket. 

Morgan rolls his eyes but grins at you anyway, shoving your shoulder as you both climb the few stairs into the conference room. “Hopefully you’ll forget by then.”

“I won’t forget.” Spencer pipes in from behind you both, and Morgan blinks a few times as he glances over his shoulder.

“Who’s side are you on, kid?” 

“The side of justice.” Spencer answers innocently, making you nearly bump into the doorframe in shock. “What?” He asks, but you can see the smile growing on his cheeks. There’s probably a matching one on your face. 

Morgan simply sighs, sitting in his chair and leaning back as the rest of the team files into the room. “I’m being harassed by children.” He mutters to himself, and you snicker into your fist.

“You love us.” You shoot back, accepting the fist bump Spencer gives you under the table.

“Unfortunately.” Morgan responds, looking every bit like the tired older brother you’re slowly coming to view him as. He and One would have been friends.

-

This case wasn't supposed to end with the unsub tossing her five year old son over the cliff and into the lake below, but that’s how it’d ended. It was supposed to end with JJ talking her down, mom to mom, promising a good life for the unsub’s little boy even after the three days she’d been on the run. This was all supposed to end nicely, and little Thomas was supposed to go back to his father and step-mother. The unsub would go to jail, and this would all come to an anticlimactic end.

The unsub, a woman named Mara, had nudged her son further behind her. To anyone else, it may have looked like a mother trying to place herself between her son and the danger. But from your place off to the side, you could see the way her arm tensed just before she shoved him in the beam of your flashlight, could see the fear that filled his eyes when he stumbled with the force of it. You’re sprinting at her before she’s even finished pushing him off, shoving her out of the way and throwing yourself over the edge when the little boy goes plummeting.

This is how your father taught you how to swim, but you’d been nine, and you knew how to float on your back. Thomas is barely six years old, and you doubt he has any earthly idea how to swim. 

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you fumble with the clasps of your bulletproof vest, shrugging out of it in record time. Thomas reaches out for you, blue eyes wide, and you tug him into your chest the moment his little hand meets yours. You spin around so your back hits the water first, gasping as the force of the impact knocks the breath from your lungs. It rattles your brain as well, dragging you down as your eyes close on impact, and you regret trying to inhale and steady yourself immediately.

The lake water is cold in your lungs, and you know it's exactly the same for the little boy who _you can’t feel_ anymore. Your eyes fly open in enough time to catch a swirl of blond hair and a pale hand outstretched to you in the murky darkness, and you push yourself further into the water to get to him. You finally feel his tiny wrist in yours, and you pull him into your chest, kicking toward the surface of the water with all of your might. 

You cough up water the moment you break the surface, though your attention is on the little boy in your arms. You’d both only been down there for barely a minute, but he is far smaller than you are. His lungs are weaker, and inhaling water will cause more damage to him than it ever could you.

“Come on, baby.” You encourage, holding him up as you tread water, pushing on his stomach and chest with the hand that isn’t supporting his head. Thomas throws up lake water, coughing all down your bare arm, but you couldn’t care less. He begins to cry the second he gets air into his lungs, and you turn him around to face you. “Hey, pumpkin. I’ve got you, I promise.”

“I want my daddy!” Thomas sobs, little fists clinging to the collar of your shirt, and you nod in understanding. 

“We’re gonna go see him, don’t worry. But right now we have to get to the shore. Do you think you can hold on tight for me? I’ll be the boat, and you be the captain.”

Thomas nods, sniffling as his grip on your collar tightens. “Find us the shore, boat. I don’t want to go swimming anymore.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” You respond, keeping your voice light as you finally look around. The current had pushed the both of you farther out into the lake, too far away from the bridge for anyone to spot you. You know what direction the shore is, though, so you begin the careful journey back. You swim backwards, keeping your feet kicking and your eyes on Thomas the whole time. Your only goal is to keep his head above the water until you reach the shore. His teeth are beginning to chatter, the cold Oregon night coupled with the water finally getting to his tiny body.

“What's your favorite thing about school?” You ask, doing your best to keep him distracted as you slowly ease back to the shore.

“My class has a turtle.” Thomas responds instantly, peeking over your head at the approaching shore. “Margo named him Bob, but I wanted to name him Carrot.”

You grin, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? How come Margo got to name him?”

“Miss. Anders said voting was fair, and Margo’s name won. I still call him Carrot, though.”

“They’re both good names.” You tell him. One of your boots finally makes contact with solid ground, and you exhale in mild exhaustion as you slowly push the both of you further up into the shallows. You stand to your full height and situate Thomas on your hip, shivering against the night air. “You ready to find your dad, buddy?” You ask him, rubbing your hand up and down his back as he tucks his face into your neck and nods.

You’ve only been walking for about forty seconds when an SUV comes flying around the tree lined corner ahead of you, red and blue lights blazing. Another one comes just behind it, trailed by a plethora of police cars and an ambulance. Thomas shields his eyes in your neck, and you have to squint to see who’s coming toward you. You've just registered Thomas's father before he’s crushing the both of you in a hug, pressing kiss after kiss into his son's hair. Thomas lets go of you in exchange for his father, and then you’re slipping out of his father’s grip and bumping directly into Rossi.

The man is a walking heater, holding you in his arms as you finally let yourself shiver. You’re _freezing,_ and the cold night air isn't helping. 

“Shirt off.” Morgan demands the second Rossi lets you go, holding a dry FBI sweatshirt and a blanket in his hands.

“At l-least buy me dinner f-first, babe.” You respond, though you manage to shrug out of your wet shirt with minimal help. Morgan practically shoves you into the sweatshirt, wrapping you like a burrito in the blanket and then pressing you against his chest.

While you're enjoying the long hugs, you have things you need to handle. You finally wiggle away from him to make sure Thomas is getting the care he needs, sighing in relief when you spot his dad and step-mom helping him change into warmer clothes and then wrapping him up in a blanket as well. They hug him between the both of them, talking quietly to themselves. They wave you over when they notice you looking, and you don't comment on the scant distance with which Spencer follows you when you pass him.

“Thank you so much.” Thomas’s dad murmurs, pressing his family ever closer in his arms. “The current would have taken him if you jumped in any later than you did.”

You hadn’t thought about that at the time, too focused on the fact that he couldn't swim, and he wouldn't have survived a fall from that height if he hit the water wrong. “Any of us would have done it.” You reassure, grinning when Thomas smiles shyly at you. “And I’d do it again, if I had to.”

“We’re thinking about starting swim lessons this summer.” Thomas’s step-mom tells you, tears bubbling in her eyes, and you smile.

“That’s a really good idea. Thomas will be a great swimmer, I already know he’s super strong.”

Thomas flexes at you, grinning shyly, and you stick your arm out of your blanket to flex back.

The conversation draws to a soft close, though you’re sure its ending is fueled by the cold chill that’s spreading rapidly through your legs. There’s a pair of sweatpants you’re aching for in your go-bag, but you have to go back to the hotel in order to get them. You offer Thomas one more smile before you and Spencer head back to your team.

“I’ve got pants and socks for you.” JJ tells you the moment you approach the SUV, and you very nearly burst into tears.

“If Will doesn’t marry you, I’m going to.” You tell her, shivering against the night air as she helps you peel your wet pants from your legs. “I don’t even know where any of these clothes came from, but I don’t give a single shit.”

“Where’d all your shits go?” JJ teases, and you laugh despite yourself.

Emily appears from the side, grinning as she helps you tug the sweatpants on. “She probably dropped them all on her way down that cliff.”

“I actually think I lost them when I hit the water. Definitely not my most graceful entrance.”

“I’d give it a solid six.” Rossi comments as he approaches, Hotch and Morgan coming to a stop by his side. 

Spencer wraps your blanket back around you once you no longer need it to shield your naked legs from prying eyes, cheeks flushing when you look up at him. You slide into the backseat of one of the SUVs, pressing your feet under Emily’s thigh when she gets in on the other side. Hotch and Spencer get into the front, and then your procession of flashing lights slowly makes its way back to the station. 

“Did you guys catch Mara okay?” You ask after a few moments.

“She was relatively easy to subdue once Thomas wasn’t at risk of being shot.” Hotch responds, and you hum in satisfaction. 

“That’s good.” You comment softly, leaning your head back against the window and looking at your teammates.

Emily turns to face you, though she makes sure your feet are still tucked under her thigh. “How did you know she was going to push him over? We thought she was just trying to hide him.”

You shrug to yourself, making eye contact with Hotch in the rearview mirror before looking away. “I was off to the side, so I could see the way she tensed up. It wasn’t protective by any means- more possessive, honestly. If she couldn’t have him, no one could.”

“I’ll never understand how a mother could do that to her child.” Emily replies, shaking her head in disgust. You know what she means, and a small part of you wishes you could relate. Parents are supposed to love their kids unconditionally, supposed to protect them with their lives. The only answer you can think of is that Mara didn’t love Thomas. Not the way she was supposed to.

Your arms ache with long since faded bruises as you make eye contact with Hotch yet again. It seems you have something else you can relate to him on.

-

You always love flying back to base at night. The stars are so prominent high above the lights of the cities, and you revel in the way they reflect off the jet’s wings. You refuse to sleep each time, regardless of how tired you are. There is nothing you love more -well, there might be a few people- than the view out of the window at night. It was your favorite thing when you were first cleared for the field, and it’s still your favorite thing almost a year later. 

Spencer had long since dozed off on your shoulder, apparently growing bored of watching you draw stick people on the back of a spare manilla folder. The rest of the team may be asleep, in fact there’s a good chance they are, but you can’t check without waking him, so you settle for simply watching out the window. You love the stars.

“Hey.” JJ whispers, sitting down in the seat in front of you with a fond smile. You feel heat spread to your cheeks as you smile back at her, and you’re grateful she can’t see Spencer’s hand in yours in your lap. She’d never let you live it down.

“Hey.” You murmur back just as quietly, wiggling your nose when a wisp of Spencer’s hair comes to attack it. JJ just grins at you as you try to blow the offending piece of hair away from you. “How’s the team?”

She hums softly, gaze flitting over the occupants of the cabin before she turns back to you. “They’re good, and they’re all finally sleeping. I was beginning to worry I’d have to drug Hotch to make him get some sleep.”

You snort softly, letting your eyes slide back out the window and into the clouds. “This team wouldn’t function properly without you, Jaege.”

“Oh, trust me, I know.” She responds easily, and the two of you share a quiet laugh. Her smile falls a little bit, making your own smile slip away as well. “Have you told him yet?” She asks gently, gesturing at Spencer with a nod of her head. 

“About?” You ask, lowering your voice even further. You have a feeling you know what this is about, though, and it makes your stomach twist.

“Three and Seven.”

There goes your twisting stomach, diving out of the window and plummeting to the ground some thousands of feet below. You exhale in an attempt to steady yourself, mind jumping all over the inside of your head. “I haven’t figured out how to explain it yet. What if it weirds him out?”

JJ laughs softly, tilting her head and smiling in what you assume is reassurance. “Trust me, you being polyamorous isn’t going to weird him out. He’ll probably have something to tell you about it that you didn’t even know was true.” The thought brings a fond smile to your face, and you glance down at the head of hair that’s slowly slipping off your shoulder and onto your chest. “I opened the drawer on your tv stand.” JJ says next, and the smile tumbles from your face.

_“Oh.”_

“No one else saw the rings. They saw the flags, but I figured the rings were something else entirely.”

You release a heavy breath, reaching across yourself to push Spencer’s head back onto your shoulder. He’s starting to drool through the fabric of your shirt, and you’d rather have a wet spot on your shoulder than your chest. “Thank you.” You whisper to her, and JJ gives you a sad smile.

“Were the three of you- did one of you propose?” She finally asks, keeping her voice low, and her expression falls when you shake your head no.

“Whoever bought them never got the chance.” You respond, a heavy kind of sadness spreading in your chest. “I found them the morning Spencer came over to talk to me about New Years. They were wrapped up in one of Three’s sweaters, so I assume she got them.”

“Are you okay?” JJ finally asks, breaking the silence your conversation had lapsed into. 

You think you are, for the most part. There’s always going to be that part of you that misses them, always going to be that part of you that reaches out for them and is devastated to find them missing. Your heart will always hold them close- will always cherish them as the people who showed you what love was _supposed_ to be like. Revere them as the people who taught you what it meant to be valued and treated right, even when you’d done something wrong.

“I am.” You answer at last, leaning your head softly against Spencer’s and smiling when he releases a soft sigh. “And even on the days I’m not, I know that I will be.”

JJ smiles at you, leaning back in her seat, and then her face morphs from quiet satisfaction to bright amusement. “So about our wedding…”

“I was thinking we’d wear pastel colors, maybe have the ceremony on the jet. Henry can be my best man.” You answer easily, smirking when she laughs quietly and rolls her eyes.

“We’d include Emily though, right?”

You tilt your head in mock contemplation, tapping the end of your chin as you pretend to think. “I’d say she’s either the maid of honor, or we can marry her, too.”

“Penelope is making the cake; you can’t argue with me about that.”

“Oh, shit, you’re right. Can we marry her, too?”

All JJ does is laugh, settling down and shutting her eyes. “Will won’t be very happy.”

“He’ll get over it.” You murmur, letting your shoulders relax as you lean back in your chair. The stars continue to glow outside the window, and you can’t keep the little smile off your lips. You readjust Spencer’s hand in your, ignoring the sweat that’s slowly gathering in your palms in favor of simply being able to hold him. 

This team makes your heart oh so big. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to write cases is so difficult i HATE IT but i also dont want to use cases from episodes bc pausing and then copying dialogue is Big Difficult, which leads me to this. im not very good when it comes to cases :(  
> its also lowkey an excuse to show off how badass eight is bc i love her Very Much
> 
> im working with college prep rn, so updates might be a while. i hope youve all enjoyed everything so far, and im working on a good concrete storyline. im excited


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First date? More likely than you think.

“Hey.” You whisper into the darkness of your bedroom, prodding at the back you’d been spooning not even five minutes ago. “Hey, wake up.”

Spencer groans, rolling backwards until he’s smothering you. “No.”

You can already feel a grin threatening to split your face open as the skin of his bare shoulder bumps into your chin. “It’s daytime, I want to do stuff.”

“No.” Spencer groans again, wiggling around until he’s settled between your arm and your side. “It’s Sunday, I’m sleeping.”

“So you don’t want to go on a date today?” You ask quietly, the previously threatened grin blooming to life on your face when Spencer tenses against you. He sits up and turns to look at you, face barely visible in the light that assaults your curtains.

“We’re going on a date today?”

You laugh softly, pushing yourself up to sit in front of him. “Well, I was going to make you this fancy breakfast and then ask you out on a date, but it’s nearly noon.”

“You… want to go on a date with me?” He asks quietly, and your grin softens just the smallest bit. He sounds so unsure of himself, which is probably your fault, but you reach out to cup his face and run your thumb along the skin of his cheek.

“I mean, you’re currently tits-out in my bed, so that should say something about what I’d like to do with you.” His face flushes at your words, you can feel the heat of his blush beneath your fingers, and it makes your grin grow. “Spencer Reid, would you like to go on a date with me?”

You can feel his mind working under your fingertips, can see the gears turning in his head as he stares at you. You keep your face as open and honest as you can, but you can’t stop the nervous biting of your lip. There’s a good chance he’ll say yes -the two of you _are_ currently half naked in the same bed- yet a small part of you worries he won’t. Maybe he’s happy with the way things are right now.

Then his hand is reaching up to rest over the one you have on his face, and you can feel his cheeks moving as he smiles. “I’d love to. What made you change your mind?”

You shrug, leaning far enough toward him to press a slow kiss to his cheek before you roll around him and off the bed. “Honestly? I’ve known you for over a year now, and I just feel like I’m wasting so much time by _not_ asking you on a date.” You flip the light on in your closet, crossing your arms as you try to figure out what to wear. 

“Do you still like the book I got you?” He asks you, peering around you at the small section of your closet that has slowly but surely become dedicated to him. He’d gotten you the third novel in a series you’d been reading for your one year anniversary of joining the team. “I haven’t seen you reading it much.”

“That would be because you’re almost always asleep on the plane by the time I pull it out.” You retort, throwing a wink over your shoulder as you grab a t-shirt and a pair of jean shorts. You slip around him and into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked enough to still hear him if he continues the conversation.

“But do you like it?” Spencer asks again, somehow sounding both uncertain and pleased with himself, making you grin into the mirror at yourself.

You trade the shirt you’d slept in for the t-shirt, squatting a few times in order to get the shorts around your thighs. “I do. I’m on my second read of it; I was _not_ expecting the ending. You’d think they’d at least leave one person alive, especially after the previous book, but I guess not. I wonder what will happen in the next one?”

Spencer is mostly dressed by the time you come out of the bathroom, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows as he watches you.

“What?” You implore, wiping around your mouth to make sure there isn’t any toothpaste. All Spencer does is smile at you, soft and sweet in the light from the bathroom.

“I just like listening to you talk.” He finally says, cheeks growing warm, and you feel yours do the same. “Your voice is nice.”

Your heart is racing over a few silly compliments, and you’re sure it’s visible on your face. You have to exhale in order to collect yourself, shaking out the hands that itch to grab Spencer’s shoulders so you can kiss him. You promised yourself you’d wait until after the date.

“So, today’s the 4th, what do you want to do?” You ask, breaking the warm silence that had sprouted between the two of you. “I’m sure there’ll be something involving fireworks later, we might be able to go see those.”

“We’ll have to see about the fireworks.” Spencer comments once he’s ducked into the bathroom, and you step out into the living room to open the curtains. “Hey, have you ever had a migraine before?”

You furrow your brows as you think back on it, getting out the things required to make Spencer a cup of coffee. “Uh, I used to get them when I was a kid. I didn’t get anymore until after my team died, but it’s been a little bit since I’ve had one. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve had a couple recently. They’re not fun.” He tells you, smiling bashfully when he spots the coffee maker already buzzing to life. 

“They’re not. You think anything specific causes yours? I know mine were usually triggered by a lot of stress.” 

Spencer shakes his head no, rummaging around in your cupboards for his favorite mug. He makes a little ‘aha!’ when he finds it, and it makes a smile bloom on your lips. “They’re not frequent enough for me to tell.” He answers, leaning against the counter across from you and watching you watch him. “What do you have in mind in terms of a date?” He finally asks, voice rising on the last word, making your smile grow wider.

“Well...” you begin, squinting as you search your head for a possibility. Your brain presents you with one that is honestly atrocious, but it would give you the chance to show Spencer something new. “I seem to recall you not having a clue what Twilight is.”

“I’ve read the books now! They’re… interesting.”

You laugh hard enough that it devolves into coughing, and you have to steady yourself on the counter beside you. Spencer looks torn between being concerned for you and laughing as well. “The third movie just got released, and there’s this one theater a little ways away that’s playing all three movies back to back. What do you say? And you _can_ say no, if you’d rather do something else.”

Spencer stares at you for a moment, scrunching his nose as he contemplates. “Can we at least get lunch first?”

“Oh, absolutely! Where were you thinking?”

“There’s that new thai place JJ told us about.”

“That works.” You head over to the door, crouching down and slipping on the only pair of converses you own. You snort when you spy Spencer tying up his own shoes as well. “Are we really about to go on our first official date wearing matching shoes?” You ask him, grinning when he looks from his shoes to yours.

“I can change-” He starts to offer, but he stops when he sees your smile. 

You grab your little backpack, and after making sure all of your stuff is inside of it, you snag your keys from their place on the side table. “To lunch!”

Spencer laughs as you take his hand and lead him out of the building. “To lunch.”

-

The two of you make it through half of the first movie before you decide you’ve had enough. You can’t get over how bad the acting is, and Spencer is still mad that the vampires _sparkle._

“Vampires don’t sparkle!” He exclaims the moment he sits down in your car, waving his hands around in exasperation. “They don’t!” You lean back in your seat and watch him rant with a fond smile. He stops once he sees you watching him, suddenly growing insecure. “Sorry, I’m sure you don’t want to listen to me talk about that.” He mutters, tilting his head down and turning to look out the window.

“No, hey, look at me.” You murmur, reaching out and guiding his face back toward yours with a gentle nudge. “Bringing you to this movie was an _excuse_ to listen to you talk like that.”

Spencer scoffs, likely assuming you’re joking, and then his brows furrow. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“You can’t make fun of me when I tell you this-”

“I won’t!” He cuts in, smiling softly when you lift your pinky up. He wraps his own around it, laughing quietly when you nod to yourself.

“Whenever you talk facts, it takes every ounce of my willpower not to jump your bones then and there.” You explain, and when you glance over at him, he’s watching you in confusion.

“Jump my bones?” He quotes, squinting as he tries to figure out what it means.

You press a hand to your mouth in shock, jaw dropping as you stare at him. You have to force yourself not to laugh, biting your lip as you lean back in your seat. “You know what? I’m gonna let you figure that one out on your own.”

“What? No! Tell me, I wanna know!” 

You finally begin to snicker, buckling your seatbelt and starting your car. “You can phone a friend if you need to.”

Spencer buckles his own seatbelt, trying in vain to get you to explain it to him. You refuse each time, making excuses about enjoying your knowledge that he doesn’t have. The two of you stop for dinner at a small diner, and you play footsie with him under the table as you try -and fail- to redirect the conversation to anything other than what you’d told him earlier. While you’d played it off casually, you’d admitted to a level of attraction you weren’t sure you should have, especially since today is your first date. 

Although, he knows you’re attracted to him in that sense. The two of you had slept together seven months ago. Spencer spends a large chunk of his time in your home with you- large enough that a part of your closet has been dedicated to him. He has spare toiletries and cologne in your bathroom. His apartment has seen more of you than it should for your first date only just happening. You can’t help but feel like you’re doing this a little backwards.

“Haha, I got this one.” Spencer teases, pulling you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you glance up in just enough time to watch your waiter walk away with his card. 

“Not fair! I wasn’t even paying attention.” 

Spencer grins at you, leaning forward to slurp from his milkshake. “You paid for lunch and the movie-”

“ _I_ asked _you_ on the date!”

“-so it’s only fair that I pay for dinner.”

You squint comically at him, making a show of grumbling under your breath as you grab your own milkshake and drink the rest of it. The waiter comes back with Spencer’s card and then the two of you take your leave, ambling down the sidewalk hand in hand. The warm July breeze blows daintily through the tips of Spencer’s hair. 

“Did you want to go see any fireworks?” You ask him once you’ve both reached your SUV, leaning against the side of it to look at him. He squints up at the darkening sky, brow pinched.

“We could. However, traditionally, a first date shouldn’t last any longer than five hours. Many people consider longer than that to be overkill.” Spencer tells you, and had you not woken up beside him in your bed this morning, you’d probably be offended.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” You tease anyway, grinning as you watch the momentary panic flit across his face. “I’m kidding. If you want to try and do this a little more traditionally, we can.”

You both climb into your respective seats, your conversation dwindling to a soft silence as you drive back to your apartment building. The streetlights you pass under light up the interior intermittently, and you can just make out fireworks going off in the distance. You wonder what the team is up to right now.

Spencer opens the door of your building for you, and then he follows you to a stop outside of your apartment door. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet in uncertainty, and you nibble at your bottom lip in the same sense. Neither one of you are sure what’s supposed to happen next.

It becomes clear Spencer isn’t going to make the first move, so you suck up your nerve, and you reach out to take his hand. The touch shoots lightning up your spine. It’s nowhere near as intimate as the two of you usually are, whether that be snuggling in bed or otherwise, but the innocent gesture of simply holding his hand outside of your front door has your stomach in knots.

“Can I kiss you?” You ask softly, trying and failing to keep your nerves out of your voice and the blood out of your cheeks. Spencer watches you with wide eyes, gaze bouncing between your lips and your eyes as he thinks. 

“Please.” Comes his answering whisper, and you release a breath you hadn’t even known you were holding. You tilt your head up just as he brings his down, and your lips brush tentatively.

This kiss is nothing like the kisses you’d shared with him seven months ago. Where those kisses had been heated and rushed, hormones and alcohol rushing through both of your veins, this one is uncertain and soft, neither of you quite sure what to make of it. You’d laugh about the absurdity of it all if you weren’t more focused on the fact that Spencer tastes like the milkshake he’d ordered. The fingers of his left hand are still loosely grasped in your right, his right hand having come up to hold the side of your face. You hold his elbow with your left hand as you break apart.

The kissing hadn’t been vigorous, but you feel like you’re out of breath anyway. You rest your forehead against Spencer’s, both of you going slightly cross-eyed to look into each other’s eyes, and then you break into silly little grins.

“Thank you for going on a date with me.” You whisper softly, brushing your lips against his once more.

“Thank you for asking me on a date.” He answers just as softly. He pulls you into a hug, and you sigh against his shoulder as you both stand in the moment for a while. Eventually he pulls away, taking a step away from you as both of your hearts race.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” You ask him, twisting the straps of your backpack around in an effort to settle your nerves.

Spencer nods, a bashful smile playing at the edges of his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He repeats your words as a statement, and then you part ways. You watch him walk up the stairs through a small crack in your door before you shut it, and then you sink down the back of it with a grin on your face.

Today has been fantastic. You’d kept yourself up for a vast majority of last night, replaying in your head over and over again how you’d ask Spencer on this date. You’d traced the planes of his face as he slept, the divots of the muscles in his back once he’d turned over, and you’d planned. Those plans went out the window when it finally came time to ask him. You’re proud of yourself for keeping it so casual when you’d asked him, and you hope the next date will be easier.

You like Spencer. You like him a lot.

-

“Hey, Morgan?”

“What’s up, kid?”

“What does it mean if someone wants to ‘jump your bones’?”

You choke on the sip of coffee in your mouth, blinking away the tears that form in your eyes as you try to catch your breath. Emily pats your back helpfully, but her attention is on Spencer and Morgan as well.

“ _Who_ is trying to jump your bones?” She asks him, brows furrowed as she leans forward. You do your best to ignore the looks JJ is shooting you.

“That’s not important.” Spencer dismisses, gaze jumping around each of you. “But what does it mean?”

“Someone wanting to jump your bones means they want to have sex with you.” Morgan explains, a grin pulling on his lips. “Look at you _go,_ kid! We’ll make a ladies’ man of you yet!”

Spencer’s face is rapidly turning red, and you can’t decide if you’re just as mortified as he is or not. This had _not_ been what you meant when you told him he could phone a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go bois. ive spent the last two days rapid fire watching seasons 5 and 6 and creating an entire timeline to work with. i have five pages worth of notes on my pc and a notebook page of a physical timeline. i have consumed nothing but criminal minds for every hour i am awake and my two inch long attention span is SUFFERING. we likely won't stick to the every other day updating schedule just bc life is bein a lil wacky rn but we will be updating
> 
> just to clear some things up: there has been no sex since new years. there's been a mutual agreement made not to cross that line. 
> 
> we got a lil mention of our telephone poll's headaches!! they're not bad yet, but we all know how they get :( poor bapy. don't worry tho, he cant shut eight out when they get bad bc her pitch black bedroom is going to become his favorite place (i say that like it isnt already. these two are a couple of simps smh)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You never claimed to be great with words, but for once, you think you did an okay job.

The Pentagon fucking _steals_ JJ.

You’re not really sure what to make of it at first, caught somewhere between being excited for her and being hurt, but you plaster a smile on your face anyway. You make her promise to still make time for all of you, and the nerves that buzz in your fingers settle when she does. She makes an effort to see you on your birthday, gifting you the small purple octopus Henry picked out for you, and you decide that her having to work somewhere else isn’t that bad. At least she isn’t dead.

You don’t see her as much as you used to, and running cases without her is strange. The role she’d played in each case your team solved was sorely missed, and you found yourself slowly but surely picking up the slack with Hotch. If he wasn’t dealing with the media, you were. Media Liaison wasn’t your official position, nor was it Hotch’s or Penelope’s, but the three of you made it work. You dealt with the press when it was determined a ‘woman’s touch’ was needed, and Hotch handled them when they wouldn’t listen to you. It was something that worked.

It wasn’t something you enjoyed, though. Your mother had started calling your home phone, the cursed thing ringing so late into the night that you’d had to disconnect it. You’d always plug it back in in the morning, just in case someone couldn’t reach your cell, but it was driving you insane. She’d seen you covering a case in a town not far from your hometown, she’d said. You were on the news, she’d said. She wanted you to call her back, wanted to finally talk with you and ask you how you’re doing, but that’s the last thing you want. 

Yet even still, your avoidance of her calls couldn’t last. 

Spencer has another migraine today, one of the few he’s woken up with when he stayed over, so you’d cancelled your date in favor of rubbing soothing fingers along his scalp. His head is pillowed atop your thighs as the hours drag by, both of your cell phones on vibrate on the other side of the bed. There’s no noise aside from the humming of the air conditioner, no light save for the small bar that peeks over the top of your curtains and casts your ceiling in a faint glow. Even the curtains in the living room are closed. All is calm in your apartment until the phone in your living room rings shrilly. You’d forgotten to unplug it.

Spencer jolts from his light doze with a moan of pain, squeezing his eyes shut tighter as he curls further into himself. You murmur a soft apology and shift off of the bed, making sure to shut the bedroom door silently as you go to check who’s calling you. You’d understand if it was the team, but when you see your mother’s phone number blinking at you from the dull yellow screen, your blood boils.

It was one thing when she called you during your few days off, interrupting your precious little bit of me time. It was another thing when she’d been calling you and interrupting your sleep for the last two weeks. You’d gotten upset over those things, maybe a little frustrated, but nothing could compare to the red hot anger that shot through your veins the moment you figured out it was your _mother_ causing Spencer’s migraine to hurt more. You snatch the phone from it’s little dock and unlock your front door, answering the phone as you leave the building entirely and stalk out to your car.

“Hello?” Your mother’s voice filters through the phone, uncertain and hopeful, and it makes you angrier. The pavement is cool against your bare feet under the late September sun. “Is that you?”

“What the fuck do you want?” You hiss, hopping up onto the hood of your SUV and staring resolutely forward. You can feel yourself shaking.

“I just wanted to talk to you, sweetie. I saw you on the news, and I-”

You scoff, sneering as you flex your fingers and try to calm down. “What makes you think you can call my home phone? What would give you the idea that I wanted to hear from you?”

Her tone shifts, and you can almost see her sitting up straighter in your mind’s eye. “Do not talk to me that way, young lady. I am your mother.”

“Oh, is that what you want to call it?” You taunt, dropping back onto the pavement and moving to pace in the grass. “You call using me as a human shield ‘mothering’? Tell me, _Mother,_ where were you when he would beat me within an inch of my life, hm? Where were you when he kicked me out? Oh, that’s right, you were standing behind him, _watching._ You are no mother. You are nothing but a coward, and you lost the privilege to call my phone the moment you disowned me.”

You’re seething, chest rising and falling rapidly as you pace through the grass. No one in the building can see you where you are, save for Spencer, but the light hurts his eyes right now. He won’t peek through your curtains. You suck in a breath in an attempt to center yourself, snarling when it does nothing but fuel your fire.

“At a loss for words there, ‘Mother’? How ironic.” 

The only noise that passes over the line is your mother’s shuddered breathing. You’re just about to hang up when she speaks again, and you have to ask her to repeat herself.

“I left your father.” She whispers again, voice garbled slightly over the phone, but you hear her this time. Your world grinds to a halt the moment you register her words, and you can feel your legs beginning to tremble underneath you. You move back to sit on the hood to keep your legs from giving out on you. Your anger melts out of you through the soles of your feet, dripping onto the pavement below.

“You left him.” It’s a statement, not any kind of question. You repeat yourself a second time, and you can feel your stomach rolling with nausea. No matter how many times you say it, it carries a certain level of surreality with it. “You left him.”

“I’ve been trying to call you and tell you-”

“Why didn’t you just say that in your messages?” You cry, legs bouncing as your nerves twirl within your body. “Why would you try and make small talk with me? None of that matters! You should’ve just told me you left him in the first place!”

She inhales sharply, trying to defend herself, but your mind is somewhere else. You bend forward and tuck your head between your knees, inhaling in an attempt to settle your stomach. It barely works.

“I’m so sorry-” Your mother tries again, but you won’t hear it. You don’t want to think about any of this right now- not while your boyfriend is currently curled in a ball on your bed with a migraine. Your mother isn’t going to get in the way of you doing the things you want to anymore.

“Don’t. Just, stop, alright? I’m done with this conversation. Please never call me again.” You hang up the phone and then tuck your head back between your knees, breathing slowly in an attempt to settle your flopping stomach. 

She’d left your father. You’d spent a decade of your life pleading with her to leave him, to pack the both of you up and run away where he could never find you, and she never did. Year after year, bruise after bruise, she stayed with him. She kept telling you that she was protecting you, but that was never the truth. You were there to protect her. Your father stopped hitting her as soon as you turned five, and you became the outlet for his rage. She was safe as long as you weren’t. 

You end up vomiting onto the pavement in front of you, swiping away the little bits of spit that hang from your chin with the bottom of your sweater when it’s finally over. Your heart is still racing, mind running a mile a minute, but Spencer is still inside. You want nothing more than to curl up against him- both for his comfort and yours. 

It takes a little bit of shifting to make sure you don’t end up barefoot in your own throw up as you slide back onto the ground, and you take a second to steady yourself. The sun has moved a decent amount in the sky, your conversation with your mother and the aftermath taking longer than a phone call should have. You lock the front door behind you, rubbing the bottoms of your feet on the rug for your shoes in an attempt to get the pieces of grass and dirt off of them. There still isn’t any noise coming from the bedroom.

You put the phone back on its dock and then unplug the entire thing from the wall, turning the volume as far down as you can in case someone calls you again. There won’t be any chance for someone to bother Spencer again today. The bedroom door creaks when you open it -you’re going to be fixing that _very_ soon- and you step on light feet toward your closet. You dump your vomit sweater in exchange for a larger t-shirt and then you slide back onto the bed, careful to avoid jostling the only other occupant of your room.

“You were gone a long time.” Spencer rasps, reaching out to lace his fingers with yours. “Who was it?”

You draw your hands to your chest and press a small kiss to each of his knuckles, and your racing heart settles when a soft smile spreads on his face. “I’ll tell you about it later, I promise.” You whisper, and after a few moments of squinting at you, Spencer closes his eyes with a quiet hum of acknowledgement. You trace little patterns into the back of his hand as your mind runs in wide circles, using the touch to keep you in the bedroom and not miles away. Just in case he needs you, you want to stay right here.

Part of you wonders what Spencer would think about your childhood. You’d traded little bits and pieces of your pasts on nights where neither of you could sleep, and from what you heard, you knew he hadn’t had it the easiest. A dad who dipped, a mother who -mentally- wasn’t all there. He’d been bullied in school for being smarter than the other kids. 

In return, you’d told him you were also bullied. You didn’t tell him to what extent, or why, just that you were. You’d told him that you weren’t super close with your parents; that your relationship with them had crumbled beyond repair when you were fifteen. 

Hotch may honestly be the only one who knows about the abuse you’d faced as a child. You’d never admitted it to him outright, but you know he knows. Three would have said the two of you were on the same wavelength with the way you understand each other, and some days, you feel like you agree. Child abuse, murdered lovers: it’s almost like the two of you were dealt a matching set of playing cards. Were you not currently reeling, you’d laugh.

Spencer’s migraine has lessened enough for him to keep food down and actually uphold a conversation without being in pain when he wakes up closer to nine. You’d just finished making something light for your dinner and packing up his portion when he came ambling out of the bedroom, blinking a few times against the kitchen light but then smiling when he sees you. You pop open the container of his dinner and offer it to him, delighting when he ignores it to press a soft kiss to your lips instead.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” He tells you quietly, and it makes your smile grow.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, my dear.” You respond just as softly, winking at him and then moving over to the couch to sit down. You sit on opposite ends, facing each other as you eat.

“Who called earlier? You were outside for a while.” He asks while you're midbite, and he cringes when you choke on the piece of food in your mouth. “Sorry, I seem to do that to you a lot.”

You finally manage to swallow, and you force the uneasiness back down your throat with it. There’s no reason to feel nervous telling Spencer anything. You’ve been officially dating for almost three months now, although you’ve sort of been unofficially dating for much longer. Neither of you had acknowledged it then, but it’d been there.

“My mom called.” You finally tell him, running your tongue along your bottom lip in an effort not to bite at it. 

“Oh.” Spencer murmurs, tilting his head as he studies you. “Are you okay?”

God, you love him. 

“I will be.” Is your tired answer, and you discard your half finished plate on the coffee table. “I told her to never call me again, so at least I won’t have to deal with her after this.”

Spencer frowns, putting his own plate on the coffee table beside yours and scooting close enough to you to tug your legs in his lap. “What did she want?”

You have so many answers for him, all varying degrees of dramatic. She wanted your very soul, or maybe just your forgiveness. She wanted to warn you about your father. Maybe she wanted you to pity her. Each answer makes you angry, and you force the tears away from your eyes as you try to formulate a response.

“She said she saw me on the news and just wanted to catch up.” You shrug, wiping the small traitor of a tear that fights its way out of your eye anyway. “She’s a liar. A liar and a coward, and I wish she’d just stay away from me and let me be happy.” Your voice breaks on the last word, and you tuck your face into your hands in an effort to shield yourself from Spencer. _He’s_ the one with the headache right now, you shouldn’t be making this about you. 

“Hey, com’ere. Look at me.” He shuffles closer to you on the couch, tugging you by your legs until he manages to situate you in his lap, and then he pushes your hands from your face. Spencer presses little kisses all over your face until you finally break into a smile, and then he leans back enough to look into your eyes. “We’ll block her number so she can’t call you anymore, okay? Maybe even let Penelope find her address and send her some things so she leaves you alone.”

You snicker, pressing yourself against his chest with a soft sigh. “I don’t want to give her any more or my time, if I’m honest. I just want to forget this happened.”

“I know a way to help you forget.” Spencer says after a moment, his voice taking on that tone he always uses when he’s trying to be flirtatious, and the fingers that had been rubbing your back travel down to the waistband of your shorts.

“Copious amounts of alcohol?” You tease, but you take his face in your hands and catch his lips in yours anyway. 

The two of you kiss languidly for a while, hands traveling around under clothes, and then Spencer pulls your shirt over your head and drops it on the floor beside the couch. He presses warm kisses along the skin of your neck and jaw, stopping once he’s made his way back down to your shoulder. “Do you want to meet my mom?” He asks you suddenly, completely obliterating the heat that had been pooling inside of you, and you can’t stop the laugh that tumbles out of your throat as you drop your forehead onto his shoulder. 

“Spencer, baby, you have the worst timing.” Your grin completely contradicts your words, in fact, you find his lack of tact undeniably endearing. You kiss him once more, your bad mood nowhere to be found. “I’d love to meet your mom. But we should maybe talk about this when we’re not two steps away from couch sex.”

His cheeks explode with heat under your fingertips, making your grin grow. “Probably.”

-

Your mother keeps calling you. It’s been nearly five weeks in total since she started, and your plea that she leave you alone hasn’t stopped her. You can’t bring yourself to block her number, either. She’s been leaving one message every Sunday morning for the last two weeks, and it always says the same thing.

_“Please call me back. Something is happening with your father. I’m worried.”_

You ignore each voicemail, feeling nothing but angry and hateful each time. She said she’d left him, yet she continues to try to talk to you about him. How does she know something is wrong with him if she isn’t seeing him often? Each voicemail leaves you in an awful mood, one you know your team is starting to pick up on. You try to dispel it once you’re not by yourself, but her persistence is driving you insane.

The serial killer in Detroit very nearly ruins the Phantasmagoria tickets you’d gotten Spencer for his birthday, but you make it back in enough time for him to use them. He’d been so excited when he opened the small envelope and found them, pressing kiss after kiss to your cheeks. He ends up taking you with him, even though you went to great lengths to make him understand that he could take anyone he wanted, and you spend most of the night watching him watch the show. That’s how you’ve spent most of this spooky season, if you’re being honest with yourself.

Spencer adores Halloween. This is the second one you’ve spent with him -although it’s the first you’ve spent _with_ him- and it still dazzles you by how excited he gets. You’ve spent the entirety of this week listening to him talk about anything and everything to do with the holiday. It’s sickeningly easy to see just how in love with him you are, and you’re surprised no one on the team has noticed that your dopey gazes are directed at him. Hotch knows, only because the two of you had finally filled out a relationship form, but you’re waiting to see how long it takes them to figure it out. 

You, Spencer, and JJ may have placed a bet on that.

You’re holding your chin in your palm, elbow resting on the small table of the diner you and Spencer stopped for dinner in. The Phantasmagoria ended nearly 45 minutes ago, and the only time Spencer has stopped talking about it was to order his food and then chew the bites that he took. He’s _finally_ starting to understand that you’re not going to grow sick of hearing his voice. You’re taking in every second of this, watching him with heart-eyes, and then he stops.

“What did you think of it?” He finally asks, raising a knowing eyebrow at you. You’re caught.

“I was too busy watching you to really pay attention.” You admit, feigning embarrassment, but you know he knows you’re faking it.

“Oh?” He teases, leaning forward and resting his own chin in his hand to match your position. “And why were you watching me?”

You know he’s expecting you to tell him that you love the sound of his voice, or that he’s more interesting than the actual show. Both of those things are true, and you open your mouth to tease him right back. Neither of you expect the blatant honesty that comes tumbling out of your mouth.

“Because I love you.” You answer without a second thought. You jerk back and slap a hand over your mouth, staring at Spencer with wide eyes. He’s tensed completely across the table from you. You open your mouth to say something, maybe to apologize for the suddenness, but you find you can’t bring yourself to do so. You’re not sorry for telling him because you truly meant it.

“You love me?” He asks you, voice barely above a whisper, and his honey brown eyes are wide as he stares at you.

You lean back in your seat and bite at the inside of your cheek as you nod. “I think I have for a while now.” You admit softly, knocking your foot against his under the table. “Please don’t feel pressured to say it back. I won’t get mad at you.”

He nods to himself, for once at a loss for words, and the two of you fall into a heavy kind of silence. The only reason panic doesn’t set in is because he keeps his ankle hooked with yours, the toe of his shoe tapping the back of your calf every time he shifts. You both slowly fall back into a light conversation as your meal comes to a close, and then you argue about who will pay -you end up splitting the bill like you always do- before you go back home. 

Spencer kisses you goodbye at your front door, thanking you again and again for going with him. He waits at the bottom of the stairs until you finally shut your door, and then you can hear his rapid steps up the stairs that continue into his apartment. 

You’re not really sure what to make of the end of the evening. You don’t think you ruined it, per se, but you definitely changed the course. It went from light hearted teasing to in depth thinking with exactly four words out of your mouth. Part of you wants to be angry at yourself for letting it slip, but the other part of you feels unimaginably lighter. You’ve been holding onto those words for months now, since well before you’d asked Spencer on your first official date, and finally saying them feels like the weight of the world has finally fallen off your shoulders.

Even if he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings just yet, you’ll be okay. You hope he will someday -it’d be kind of awkward if he didn’t- but for now, you’re content. He knows you love him now, and he hadn’t seemed super put off by it, so you qualify that as a win. You kick your shoes off on the little shoe rack and then turn to face your living room, more than ready to sit down on the couch and watch another episode of Avatar. 

Your home phone’s screen flashes a dull yellow with a missed voicemail.

You press the button to make it play, the anger you’d felt at the sight of your mother’s number melting away into a cold kind of despondency as the same voicemail plays for a third Sunday in a row. 

_“Please call me back. Something is happening with your father. I’m worried.”_

A Happy Halloween would’ve been nice, but you suppose that this is better. It’s clear her focus is still your father and not you, which makes separating yourself from her easier. You wish you could maintain that same anger you had when she first called you those few weeks ago, but the mention of your father drains all of the fight from within you. Even after thirteen years of being free from him, you’re still afraid.

You forgo a shower and strip down to your underwear, snagging one of Spencer’s sweaters from the closet and pulling it on over your head. The smell of his detergent soothes your heavy mind after the first inhale, and you collapse onto his side of the bed with a small groan of frustration. Sleep claims you mere moments after you remember to plug your cell in to charge, and you bury your face in his pillow with a sigh. 

It’s not even an hour later that you get a phone call, and you don’t even bother checking the caller ID as you answer and press it to your ear. There are only seven people who would call your personal cell this late at night.

“Did I wake you?” Spencer asks you softly, and the tension bleeds from your shoulders. 

“Not really.” Comes your quiet reply, and you hear Spencer laugh gently through the phone. The sound of it draws a tired smile onto your face. “You okay?”

You can hear the smile in his voice. “I am. I just wanted to tell you that I love you, too.” He sounds nervous when he says it, voice rising an octave, but the words broaden the smile on your cheeks. Your mother is long forgotten in favor of this wonderful gift of a man who _loves you back._

“Thank you.” You whisper into the phone, pressing your face further into his pillow as sleep drags at the edges of your consciousness. He says something else that you don’t quite catch, and he laughs once more when you try to get him to repeat himself.

“Goodnight.” He whispers, voice soft and sweet, and the combination of his scent on your sheets and his voice in your ear has you dropping off to sleep without your consent. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two whole chapters of domesticity?? what could possibly go wrong?
> 
> :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A simple recap of the last four months of your life. You've never been so happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's implied sex in here gross. couple of nasties smh.

Your mother stops leaving voicemails the week of Thanksgiving. Her number still flashes on your home phone every Sunday, her call still makes your quiet apartment echo with the shrill ringing, but she doesn’t leave a voicemail anymore. 

You try not to think about her- _force_ yourself not to think about her as Spencer’s headaches grow worse and more frequent. Between work and trying to offer him any kind of comfort, you don’t have time to think about your mother’s odd behavior. He refuses to see a doctor at first, claiming that _he’s_ a doctor, so he should be able to handle this himself. He snaps at you as the migraines get worse, angry and hurt because he thinks you doubt his capabilities when you push him to see a doctor. It’s only escalated to an argument once, and you’d sworn at him in ASL for hours to avoid hurting his ears.

Spencer apologizes as soon as he’s not being blinded by the pain in his head, all shaking hands and soft words, expecting you to still be angry with him. You explain each and every time that you’re never angry with him- you’re just frustrated that you can’t do anything to help. Time and time again, in every combination of words you can think of, you explain that you have complete faith in him, but that won’t ever stop you from worrying. You just want him to feel okay.

You’re slowly but surely growing more and more stressed as the holidays come around. Spencer takes you to visit Diana around Thanksgiving, and you’re thrilled to meet the woman. She gushes about how good you are for Spencer, how much he talks about you in his letters, but neither of you mention his headaches to her. He doesn’t want to worry her, he tells you. You’d debate with him on that, but you don’t know enough about having a sort-of-decent relationship with your parents to do so. 

You like Diana, though. She’s sweet, and you can see where Spencer gets his- well, his everything from. She makes sure to tell you that she’s the original genius, and that your kids are going to be geniuses, too. You don’t say anything to Spencer about that little tidbit of information, nor do you try to correct Diana. 

“Crash has been writing to me about you since you joined the team.” She’d told you while Spencer was off talking to a doctor, her grin almost devious. “That boy loves you so much.”

“I love him just as much.” You’d admitted quietly, feeling your cheeks warm when she’d smiled at you. 

Your visit with her had been something she made the both of you promise to repeat. Spencer had been hesitant, but you remind him that he’s the one who invited you there. He tries to make it seem like it’s not a huge deal, but you see him smile at you when he thinks you’re not looking. You’ve never seen him look so happy.

Jolene and Remi invite you to visit for Christmas, and you bring Spencer with you when you visit them for a few days. They adore him, and though he’s a tad awkward, you know he likes them just as much as you do. He loves baby Daffodil, cradling her in his arms whenever he’s given the chance, and your camera roll is full of pictures of the two of them together by the time you leave. Diana’s comment about your future children makes itself known each and every time you look at those pictures, and you find yourself genuinely considering something like that with Spencer. He’d be a good dad, you’re sure of it. 

The holidays also bring with them a cadet by the name of Ashley Seaver who is somehow made part of your team. She’s yet to graduate from the academy itself, yet she still manages to accompany you on cases. It seems unsafe in your professional opinion, but you’re not one to question orders. Rossi has more or less adopted her as his team-daughter, and his approval and faith in her makes her transition into your team’s mild pack dynamic easier. It helps that Emily vouches for her so readily.

All you see when you look at her is the moment you’d wiped the blood from her face in the back of the SUV. You remember the first time blood had hit your face while you were on your first extraction- you remember the first person you couldn’t talk down. But you’d been an agent when it’d happened to you. Your training had already been completed. You try to have faith in her as time moves on, just as you would hope people would do for you if you were in her situation.

Today is New Year’s Eve. It’s the second one you spend with Spencer, but it’s the first one where, if you do sleep together, it’s not going to send you running the following morning. The two of you had spent New Year’s with JJ and Will last year, but this time around you spend it with Morgan and Penelope. Your beautiful tech analyst opens a can of worms deeper than she realizes as the clock inches toward midnight.

“So, Spencer…” Penelope trails off, tucking herself further against Morgan’s side and waggling her eyebrows at the genius beside you. “How’s your little crush going?”

You raise an eyebrow, a grin spreading on your face as you turn to face him. Spencer looks at you with the smallest hint of panic, and your grin only grows. This is about to be really, _really_ funny.

“I don’t have a crush.” He says, but his voice cracks, and you lose your battle with your laughter. It doesn’t help that you’re the tiniest bit drunk, the warm fuzz of alcohol on your brain stealing your will faster than it normally would.

“Oh no, Pretty Boy. I’ve seen how you look at Seaver.” Morgan taunts, and your laughter only grows. 

Spencer looks somewhere between offended and terrified, his gaze bouncing around your face for any sign of- anything, really, but you know he won’t find it. “I do not!” He insists, but none of you buy it.

Penelope had made mention to you about his crush on Seaver when you all returned from the case in New Mexico with her. You’d been nestled on Penelope’s couch mid-movie when she’d paused it and put on her Gossiping Face, and then she’d turned to you and asked you if you noticed Spencer watching your team’s cadet while you were there. You thought back on it, and you remembered you had. 

Where someone else may have been angry or jealous, maybe even hurt, you just found his crush on her cute. The way he grew flustered around her was incredibly endearing, and the only reason you hadn’t teased him about it on the flight back to base was because he’d been asleep mere moments after kicking his feet up into your lap. After that, you’d just watched him, grinning each time he slipped up. 

You knew the crush wouldn’t last, though. Part of you considered seeing what he thought of her, and then that thought had taken you down the path of what could happen if the two of you decided to include her in your relationship. That had ended the first time you watched her shut him down when he was talking about something he found interesting. 

“I don’t have a crush on Ashley.” Spencer tells you the moment you both arrive back to his apartment. Your little New Year’s party had disbanded not long after the clock struck twelve. He’d wanted to sleep in his own apartment tonight, but he wanted you to be there, so you’d followed him up the stairs and through his front door. “I swear.”

“It really is okay if you do.” You insist, flopping onto his couch with a quiet sigh of content. You love the way his apartment smells.

“How can you say that?” He asks you, sounding almost offended, and you're reminded that this is more or less his first relationship. He hadn’t exactly had peers his age to date while he was in school.

You push yourself up on the couch and reach out for him, stopping Spencer in his pacing as he comes to sit by your side. “I’m not exactly monogamous, baby.” You tell him gently, watching the way his face moves while he thinks. You reach into your pocket and tug your wallet out, flipping it open and leafing through the card slot that holds your polaroids until you find the one you want. Your heart aches the smallest bit as you pass it into Spencer’s waiting hands.

It’s an old picture, dated back almost four years ago. Your face is dead center, Three and Seven on either side of you pressing an open mouthed kiss to your cheeks. You can hear the seagulls that had been on the beach that day, the rolling of the tide against the sand and the squealing laughter of children. The smell of salt water lingers in your nose.

“You having a crush on someone doesn’t bother me, Spencer. I promise.” You say softly, leaning sideways on the back of the couch and watching him study your polaroid. He traces the outside of it with one of his fingertips, and then his uncertain eyes flit up to you. “Just because you find someone attractive, it doesn't mean you’re going to leave me.”

“You’re polygamous?” He asks you, and you snort under your breath as you pull another polaroid from your wallet and hand it to him. This one shows Three and Seven cuddled together on the couch in Three’s home.

“Polyamorous.” You correct gently. “We were all dating each other.”

Spencer compares the two polaroids in his hands, glancing up at your face every now and then. “And you… want Ashley to join us?”

The uncertainty in his voice is so incredibly out of character for him. You want nothing more than to reach out and soothe him, but you don’t want to startle him. This is a delicate topic. “Not particularly. I don’t really like the way she dismisses you when you talk about things, for starters. Plus, I’m perfectly happy with how we are now. It could be you and me until the day I die, and I’d never think twice about it.”

“You’re happy like this?” Spencer asks you, and this time you do reach out to cradle his jaw. 

“Of course I am.” You breathe, sitting up onto your knees so you’re level with him. “This is the happiest I’ve been in nearly two years, and I wouldn’t change anything about it.”

The uncertainty seems to melt out of Spencer at your words, and he leans forward to press his face into your shoulder. “So you’re not mad about the crush thing?” He asks you, voice muffled in your shoulder, and you grin into his hair.

“If I were going to get mad at you for thinking Seaver’s attractive, you would have to get mad at me for thinking Emily is attractive.”

You both laugh softly, settling into a quiet embrace on Spencer’s couch. You could stay in this space for the rest of eternity, but then Spencer is mumbling into your shoulder again.

“What was that?” You ask, prodding his spine gently, and snickering when he twitches away from you.

“I like men, too.” Comes his hesitant whisper after a long pause, and your heart flutters in your chest. To be trusted with something like this means the world to you.

“So you could’ve had anyone you wanted, and you chose me? I’m honored.” You tell him, holding his face in your hands when he pulls back to stare at you.

Spencer's brows furrow as he studies you. “I should be saying that to you. My hair’s stupid and I talk too much and-”

You press a finger to his lips to silence him, shaking your head no in the lamplight. “I love your hair, and I love the sound of your voice- you could talk to me for hours and I'd never get tired of it. I would choose you again. And again. And again.” You punctuate each ‘again’ with a firm kiss to his lips, smiling when he actually starts to look like he believes you. “You have yet to realize what a catch you are, Spencer Reid, but I promise you that someday you’ll finally see what I do.”

Spencer captures your lips in his in a heated kiss, putting all of his feelings into the action as he tugs you against him. His hands slide up your sweatshirt and pull you even tighter against his front by your waist. 

“I love you so fucking much.” He tells you between kisses, somehow sounding aroused and like he’s going to cry at the same time. “What did I do to deserve you?” 

“You deserve something nice in your life.” You respond cheekily, repeating the words he'd spoken to you almost a year ago. You delight in the explosion of emotion on his face as he leans back in to kiss you again. 

“I’m so lucky that that nice thing is you.” Spencer finishes against your lips, grinning as you climb into his lap. Your heart soars when your eyes meet. You’re so hopelessly in love.

Spencer's phone rings sometime after 10am, and the two of you jolt awake at the sound of it. You press your face into his neck with a whine as he fumbles around for the damned thing, neither of you bothering to open your eyes. He finally finds it and picks it up, making the shrill noise cease.

You’re almost asleep again, the soft warmth that is cradled between the thick blanket around you and the naked body under you doing wonders to soothe your tired mind, but then you hear Spencer say Hotch’s name. The sleep that had been pulling at you not even a moment before dissipates in less than a second.

You have a case.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell her. We’ll be there soon.” Spencer finishes, reaching across his coffee table to hang up the phone and then wrapping you tightly in his arms once more. He presses his face into the top of your hair with a small whine. “Wheels up in an hour.”

“So much for vacation time.” You mutter under your breath, tucking yourself further against Spencer with a soft hum. The two of you waste five more minutes like that, tangled up under the soft thickness of the blanket, and then you finally push yourself off of him. You grin when you catch him admiring your body, and you lean down to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“You’ll make us late.” He tells you, voice cracking around the strain of trying to keep it level, and you laugh against his lips.

You shrug as you peel yourself off of him, dropping the blanket on his face as you slink toward his bathroom. “Not if you come shower with me, I won’t.” You laugh again when you hear him tumble off the couch and onto the floor with a thud. “Don’t hurt your knee again, baby.”

-

Emily starts to act weird as January bleeds into February. She’s getting snippy with a few of you, and she’s started ditching yours and Morgan’s little workout sessions. She’d always come before, and now she makes every excuse not to attend. It doesn’t matter if you schedule them for early in the morning or the middle of the night; she stops coming. 

You try not to think about, and you and Morgan go about your workouts as you normally would. Spencer comes to watch you both on occasion, though that had stopped when Morgan bet you thirty bucks you couldn’t bench press Spencer, and then you had. You’d slipped up and called Spencer baby when you’d been begging him to let you do it, and Morgan had found out about the two of you. The thirty dollars had been dropped into your hands the moment you set Spencer down, and then you’d passed it to Spencer. He’d won the bet on who would figure it out first, after all. He also stopped coming to watch you both work out.

The two year anniversary of your team’s death approaches as the month draws to a close, and with it comes a case that involves a little boy with autism. You’d come back from that case, torn between a general tiredness and unease, only to find Spencer setting up a keyboard in your living room. Your negative emotions melt away the moment you lay eyes on him, and you’d spent the remainder of your night watching him learn how to play. 

But that unease kept coming back. Days kept passing slowly, and Emily kept growing ever so slightly colder, and Spencer’s headaches kept getting worse. You arrived at the anniversary, the last day of February, with barely a breath to spare.

Spencer’s migraine that day is a bad one, he keeps hallucinating if he moves too quickly or thinks too hard, and you’re grateful that there is no case that needs your team’s offsite attention. The team hovers around you for most of the day anyway, all of them bathed in soft concern, and it fills you with a gentle kind of appreciation. They make you feel so warm inside, and you assure them again and again that you’re okay. 

You take Spencer back to your apartment after work, drawing the curtains in your bedroom and pinning them to the wall so no extra light seeps in. You press a soft kiss to his forehead and thread your fingers through his hair a few times before you slip out of the bedroom and shut the door, leaving him to ride out the remains of his migraine in the darkness of your bedroom.

Not a second is wasted as you shuffle into the living room on quiet socked feet and pull the drawer of your tv stand open. You pull the blue velvet box from within and flip it open, staring down at the golden rings within. The sight of them doesn’t hurt you the way it did when you’d opened it over a year ago, nor does it hurt like it did when you opened it six months ago. It still hurts, but nowhere near as bad.

Three and Seven -Hunter and Blake- are gone. They’ve been gone for two years, at least physically. You’d loved them so much, and you doubt you’ll ever stop loving them. But you can’t love ghosts the way you love Spencer. You love Spencer as though he hung the stars in your sky, and if you’re honest with yourself, he might as well have. Everything seems twice as beautiful when he’s standing by your side.

You don’t hear the door to your bedroom open now that you’ve oiled it so it won’t creak, but you do hear the thump of Spencer’s hip on the back of the couch as he squints in the lamplight. You turn around to face him, the three rings held in your hands, and you hold your breath as he looks down at them.

“You okay?” He asks you quietly, and your heart swells as you release the air you’d been holding.

“I’m all good, baby. I just have to make a trip to the cemetery. I’ll be back later- you can go lay back down.”

Spencer shakes his head no and then frowns, making you grin softly. He’d jostled his brain around. “I don’t want you to be by yourself today.” He tells you, and he reaches a hand out to pull you to your feet. You accept his hand but use your legs to push you up, pressing a soft kiss to his jawline before you turn around and put the rings back in their spots. You shut the box as softly as you can and slide it into your jacket pocket with a gentle sigh.

Neither of you speak much when Spencer has his migraines. When you do, it’s mostly through sign language, but today is different. You’re sure Spencer put the pieces together about the rings less than three seconds after he’d seen them, and you’re grateful for that. You’ve spent so much time together, words are hardly necessary. You love him so much. 

You arrive at the cemetery in less than an hour, and you’re careful shutting your door. Spencer laces his fingers with yours and tucks your hands into the pocket of his overcoat, and then you begin the walk through the winding paths of the graveyard. Eventually you stop near the edge of a large oak tree, and you exhale heavily. You haven’t been here since their funerals. This is the first time you’re seeing their headstones.

“We reserved these spots as a joke one year.” You tell Spencer softly. You pop the box open and kneel above Three’s grave, stabbing a nearby stick into the ground to make a hole for you to drop the ring in. “Five had almost bled out on one of our extractions, and we’d all tried to think of something to do to make up for it. Funny how this is what we came up with.” You do the same on Seven’s grave, dropping his ring into the hole and covering it with a gentle hand. “We picked the spot out off a map while we were drunk, and Three reserved them all.”

You stand back and stare down at the only plot with no headstone. Spencer comes to stand beside you, his hands tucked in his pockets. “You were supposed to be buried here.” He states, and you nod.

“Almost was.” You mutter, and then you squat down above your own would-be grave. Spencer kneels beside you, and he helps you in jabbing a hole into the half frozen ground with a stick of his own. You drop the golden ring in with a shuddered breath, and then you exhale in relief. “But I’m glad I wasn’t.”

“Me too.” Spencer murmurs, and after he’s helped you cover the hole and you’ve both risen to your feet, he pulls you into a hug. You lock your arms around him under his coat, grinning when the thing nearly engulfs you both.

“I feel like this is going to be a good year, you know?” You ask quietly once you’ve pulled apart, keeping your voice low for Spencer’s benefit.

He nods minutely, just enough for you to see, and then he bends down to kiss you. You meet him in the middle, and you take a moment to be grateful for everything you’ve gained. Nothing could ruin this happiness you’ve found.

Well, almost nothing. You really should’ve waited a week before you let yourself feel so safe and secure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? Another domestic one? This totally isn't a ploy to lure you all (myself included) into a false sense of security. Haha. 
> 
> :')
> 
> completely unrelated, i found out reid was supposed to be bi about a week ago and i was like :0 so now he is. i didnt make a huge deal about it bc there really isnt any reason to do so. also, fun fact, this chapter was unofficially titled "Couple of Bicons". this chapter's ending gives me strong chowder vibes from when he sings "and nothing can go wrong." and then a moment later goes "oh no it all went wrong!"


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't supposed to happen to you again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter contains heavy themes of suicide. Please read at your own risk. If you want to skip that part, I wouldn't read passed the break. I can summarize that half in the comments if need be.

Exactly one week after the two year anniversary of your previous team’s death, Emily dies.

On Monday, March 7, 2011, Emily dies.

Emily _dies._

Once, seemingly years and years ago, a car bomb had exploded in the midst of a hostage situation. The shock that exploded in you at the very same moment was ice cold, sliding like water through your veins and permeating every inch of your body. Your hearing had gone with it, a high pitched ringing taking over what had once been panicked yelling. The bits and pieces of the car that hit the ground near you had done so in slow motion, bouncing once before they burst into flame.

You could almost believe a bomb had gone off in the visitors’ lounge the moment JJ stands in the doorway. The same ice water spreads outwards into your limbs, sending chills along the surface of your skin. All sound fades from your ears, and that same high pitched ringing takes its place. Your mind drifts somewhere entirely different. 

Spencer leaves his seat beside you, his hand disappearing from yours the only reason you notice. You watch from miles away as he collapses in JJ’s arms, tucking his head into her shoulder and beginning to cry. His shoulders shake with each shuddered breath he takes. Rossi takes Seaver’s hand, and Penelope begins to cry. You lock eyes with Morgan for just a moment, the same emptiness inside of you reflected back at you from within his gaze.

You’re out of your seat before you even realize it, taking long strides through the shortcut toward the exit door. A hand catches your wrist before you can step under the red sign, and when you turn, Hotch doesn’t let you go.

“You should stay.” He tells you quietly, looking every bit the concerned father you’d come to regard him as, and he watches you with sad eyes. “If not for us, then for Spencer.”

You shake your head, eyes flitting to where JJ still holds Spencer through the window of the metal door. You turn back to Hotch and shake your wrist out of his grip. “I’ll be outside.” You murmur to him, turning once more and ducking out of the exit doors. No sound meets your ears as you walk down the seemingly endless hallways toward the stairwell, and the faces of the nurses you pass are blurred with your detachment.

It’s dark outside of the hospital. You sit on the back of a bench near the entrance, propping your elbows on your knees and tucking your head into your hands. The ringing has yet to subside, and you can’t quite feel the harsh chill of the air that another part of you knows is present. You can just barely feel the edges of it on the few bits of your skin that are left exposed by your jacket, but it does nothing to rival the cold inside of you. A sinking numbness blooms in your chest, dragging you into it with loving hands.

Cars roll by on the streets outside of the hospital parking lot, headlights illuminating the path ahead of them. They blur as your vision unfocuses further, and hands of midnight squeeze the life from within your lungs while they simultaneously steal the tears from your eyes. You’re crumbling apart from the inside, heart thundering so viciously inside of you that your chest shudders with each beat. You struggle to catch your breath and nearly pitch forward on the bench, gasping when a pair of hands steady you.

“Ma’am? Are you alright?” The hands ask, and when you snap your head in their direction, you find the hands are connected to a nurse. She repeats her question in concern, and you shake your head no.

“I can’t breathe.” You mutter, doing your best to keep calm. The words feel like sandpaper sliding out of your throat, and you realize with complete clarity that you’re shivering violently.

“Come inside with me, I’ll see what I can do.” The nurse tells you sweetly, and she helps you up from the bench and into the hospital once again. She takes you the complete opposite direction from which you’d come, and a small part of your brain breathes a sigh of relief. The nurse settles you on one of the beds after speaking with whom you assume is her superior, and then she goes about taking your vitals and asking you questions.

You’d recognized your symptoms -shortness of breath, chest pain- as those of a panic attack at best, a heart attack at worst. The nurse, a woman barely younger than you named Vicky, crushes an aspirin and helps you take it as a precaution. Your breath still comes in short, stinging gasps, and your chest still feels as though it’s being squeezed and pulled apart from the inside. 

Vicky takes your blood pressure, and upon finding it dangerously low, goes to get a doctor. You pass in and out of consciousness as time slides by, answering any question you can while you’re awake. It’s all almost enough to truly drag you back to the present, but your mind remains miles and miles away. You’re safer there, tucked against the side of someone you barely know yet couldn’t live without. They cradle you as though you were a small child against their chest, and you tumble once more into numbness.

You still don’t know what time it is, you think to yourself. Vicky comes and goes, and every time you see her appear at the edge of the hallway, you’re filled with a sick sense of dread. There’s always that chance she’ll be bringing your team with her, even though you doubt they know where you are, and you hold your already struggling breath each time you spot her. You don’t want the team to see you like this- not so soon after losing Emily.

Fuck, _Emily._

You can’t even bring yourself to cry. 

“You’re suffering from stress cardiomyopathy.” Vicky tells you gently, giving you more medication to take. “It’s more commonly known as broken heart syndrome. These will help get your blood pressure back up.”

A quiet thanks is all you can muster, barely able to hear her through the haze of it all. You take the medicine she hands you and chase it with the smallest amount of water you can manage, and then you swing your feet over the side of the bed. Vicky places a hand on your shoulder to stop you.

“We need to keep you overnight for observation. Stress cardiomyopathy is reversible, but it’s better that you don’t take any risks.”

You don’t tell her that you’re taking the biggest risk of all by simply staying put. “There are people here I need to get back to.” You say instead, watching your boot covered feet hit the shining tile floor with a dull thud. “Where’s my phone?” 

Vicky hands it to you, and you hold the power button down to turn it on. “We couldn’t get a hold of your emergency contact, and there aren’t any recent calls to choose from. Does anyone know you’re here?”

They couldn’t get in touch with your emergency contact because she’s already somewhere in this hospital, corpse growing colder as the minutes tick by. You wonder how much time has passed.

“I came here with a group of people.” You answer, shrugging your jacket on and wincing when your aching chest tugs. Were you a smarter person, you’d get back on the hospital bed. “I don’t know how long it’s been since I stepped outside, but I’m assuming they’re looking for me.”

You handle the financial aspect of things as quickly as you can, having them send your prescription to the pharmacy closest to your apartment. It all feels mechanical in your head, and the ringing from before slowly returns to your ears. Vicky walks you back to the exit in a dull silence.

Your phone vibrates with a call as you exit through the front doors, and you tug it out of your pocket to see Spencer’s contact picture. Any other time it would draw a smile to your face, but the sight of it just makes you sad. You answer the call and tuck the frigid screen to your ear.

“Where did you go?” You hear him ask, both over the phone and somewhere near you. You turn to see the team hovering near the SUVs at the edge of the sidewalk.

“Currently I’m walking up behind you.” You respond, offering a wave when Spencer whips around to face you. You both hang up and he comes crumbling into your arms, melting against you as you cling to each other. “Sorry I disappeared.”

The drive to the airport is lost to the ringing in your ears and the distance your mind has put between yourself and the moment. The plane ride is much the same, the eight of you situated on the jet in a heavy darkness. No one speaks- the silence only broken by the occasional sniffle. Were you more present, you’d feel Hotch’s eyes on you. Instead you continue to stare forward, gaze lost somewhere outside of the jet’s curved walls, body tucked quietly into Spencer’s side. 

You ride back to the apartment in that same silence, your hand in Spencer's on his thigh. He’s crying again. Your chest still spasms if you breathe too deeply, shuddering and raspy and wrong. It's the early hours of the morning by the time you both get home, and you shut off your car with little more than a sigh. 

No words are spoken as the two of you forgo the walk up the stairs in exchange for your front door. Shoes come off methodically, keys and jackets and guns put in their rightful places, all while the lights remain off. Spencer takes your hand again, or maybe you take his, and you both move into your bedroom. 

Maybe it's the fact that you didn't stay at the hospital for further treatment, but your lungs won't fill with air properly. That's probably exactly why. 

You and Spencer tangle together under the covers, ignoring the fact that you're both still fully clothed, and you simply try to breathe. You can feel the tremors that come with tears first, and they slowly climb up your spine until you're left choking on sobs in your throat. Tears slide down your cheeks and into the material of Spencer’s shirt where your face is pressed into his shoulder. His tears find purchase on the skin or your neck, and you both hold each other as you weep. 

To grieve with someone else is something you've never experienced before. You've been held as you grieved, shaking and sobbing, but not like this. Your grief is reflected back at you in the way Spencer’s hands fist into the material of your shirt, in the way his tears slowly soak your neckline. You hold him just as tightly, sobbing just as hard. It is different, and it is strange, but not unwelcome.

You’re tired by the time you've cried yourself out. The numbness that's been hiding within you, staved off only by the warm arms that cradle you infinitely closer, finally resurfaces as you drift in and out of sleep. Your chest doesn't hurt as bad, the burning in your lungs lessening as you float aimlessly through consciousness. You relish in Spencer’s presence, but even that slips away from you as your mind slides further and further into the dark abyss you’d carved out long ago.

Your chest may not ache, but your heart still thrums painfully.

This wasn't supposed to happen to you again.

-

Emily’s funeral is a morbid affair.

You walk behind her coffin, your hand clasped in Penelope’s as your small procession makes its way through the graveyard. She blots her tears away with a handkerchief as Emily’s coffin is set down, and you let go of her hand with one final squeeze to move over and take Spencer’s. He laces your fingers and tucks your hands into the pocket of his overcoat, and the two of you lean on each other for support.

They place a red rose into your hand, and you place that rose onto the top of her coffin. It isn't enough -will _never_ be enough- but it's all you have. She deserves so much more than you could ever give her now. Her flag is folded and given to her mother, who weeps softly into her hands. You have seen so many parents grieve their children, and you’d grieved with them, but not like this. Never like this.

It starts to rain at the wake. Part of you thinks it’s fitting, and you let the frigid droplets collect on the skin of your palm until Spencer pulls you inside. You make small talk with everyone you run into, and you pepper Henry and Jack with kisses and enthusiasm, but you never stop feeling empty. The chill slips back into your veins as the wake comes to a close, and the ringing slowly returns to your ears.

“I’m going to stay at JJ’s tonight.” Spencer tells you quietly, hands in his pockets as he stands in the parking lot. The wake is over now. It’s time to go home. “Will you come?”

He takes one of your hands loosely, and JJ pleads with her eyes from where she stands beside Will, but you shake your head.

“I think I’m going to just be alone for a while. I love you.” You respond softly. Your eyes burn as you watch his face fall.

“I love you.” He answers anyway, and he leans down to press his forehead to yours. You exchange a chaste kiss, eyebrows furrowed, and then you bid him farewell. They pull out of the parking lot as you’re putting the key in the ignition. 

There’s a tap on your window, much heavier than that of the rain, and you stop in your proceedings to turn and roll the window down. Rossi stands under a black umbrella and watches you with sad eyes.

“Hotch and Jack are coming over to cook with me. What about you?” 

It’s his way of offering without offering, and the corners of his lips pull downward when you refuse. “I’m just going to head home. Maybe sleep for a little bit.” 

“Alright.” He relents, frown still in place as he takes a few steps back from your door. “Be safe getting home.”

“Anything for you, Dad.” You respond, forcing the playful sarcasm into your voice, but it turns his frown into a small smile, so who are you to care? He might not worry about you as much now.

You drive home in empty silence, the pattering of raindrops on your windshield the only thing to keep you company. Headlights and taillights blur in the drops that cling to the glass, or maybe that’s just the unfocusing of your vision as your mind wanders yet again. You can't be sure, not anymore. 

The power goes out as the rain picks up. You hunch on the middle of your couch in the same empty silence that had swallowed you in the car, broken only by the rumblings of thunder across the sky. Your chest heaves with each breath you take, and cold tears leave winding pathways of mascara as they glide down your cheeks. 

Emily is dead. Moshe, Caleo, Hunter, Rafael, Arian, Silas, and Blake are dead, and now so is Emily. Eight people you've loved with your entire heart and body and soul are _dead,_ and there is _nothing_ you can do to change that.

Eight doesn't feel like such a lucky number anymore.

One had dubbed you lucky when you joined the team. You were the eighth member, and as a result, you were deemed lucky. You don't really know how it happened, or why, but you rarely failed in the tasks you performed, so maybe it was true. You’d believed you were lucky for so long, but that all changed in the basement of that warehouse. Your luck ran out that day, and now, you suppose your luck has just turned for the worse. Everyone you love keeps dying around you.

Your chest keeps heaving, and unzipping the side of your dress to alleviate some of the pressure does nothing. You’re sure this isn't good for you, especially not after you refused to stay in the hospital for further observation, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Every part of you aches as you tremble, yet even still, you can't shake the numbness that grips you like a vice.

Your gun is on the coffee table in front of you. The clip is out. The safety is on.

The only candle you own illuminates the open drawer on your tv stand. Folded stars stare back at you, flickering between a soft yellow and a rolling orange. They judge you for your failure to save the people you love, berate you viciously for your inability to do anything right. They have born witness to all of your faults and misgivings, just as they will bear witness to your final one. Your final act of selfishness.

Your gun is on the coffee table in front of you. The clip is in. The safety is off.

You won’t _ever_ let anything take someone away from you again. 

HRT’s selection process had trained you to function pristinely in crisis. They’d broken you down to nothing, stripped you of your name and personality, and they’d liked what they saw when all of that was gone. They'd chosen you because of your survival instincts and your level head. They’d chosen you not only because of your physical strength, but your mental strength as well. Your bore each challenge they bestowed upon your with vigor, and you still had more of yourself to give when it was over. 

You don’t have anything left to give anymore. You’re so sick of things being taken from you- of choices being made for you. And you are so, _so_ tired. 

Your gun is in your hand. The barrel is to your temple. Your finger is steady on the trigger.

You’re drowning inside of your own body, lungs both cradled and crushed by hands red with blood. They drag you down from the inside out, clawing at every aspect of your soul, and you don't even have the energy to scream. There’s no one to reach for this time, no one to fall back on as you’re swallowed by the heaviness within you. You’d made sure of that. 

Part of you always knew that this was how it would end. You’d first considered it when you were nine, sick of being unlovable, but you'd always been too scared to try. Too many what if’s ran circles around your head. What if your friends missed you? What if you made your mom sad? What if you missed out on something amazing?

There are no what if’s this time, though. You’ve lost too much, and now the what if’s mean nothing. They’d never meant much to begin with, anyway. People might miss you, but that won’t be your problem. Nothing bad will ever happen to you again.

The air conditioner in your apartment kicks back on as the power comes to life outside. You inhale a steady breath through your nose. The mascara tears keep rolling down your cheeks.

This wasn’t supposed to happen to you again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i guess this could qualify as the bad ending. it isn't the end, obviously, but if you want to interpret it that way, you can. 
> 
> don't worry tho. this isn't it for our baby girl. she's going through hell and back, and that won't stop for a while, but she's tough. and she can't exactly keep shutting people out when a certain someone has a key to her apartment


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery is a slow process, but you're not doing it alone this time. You're grateful you're not doing it alone this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for more mentions of suicidal thoughts. also mentions of drug abuse.

You put the gun back down at some point. 

You’re not sure exactly when it is -you can’t see any clocks from where you’re sitting- but you take your finger off the trigger and set the gun back on the coffee table. 

Even after all this time, all this pain and all these problems, you still don’t want to die. 

It would almost be funny if it didn’t make you ache all over.

You stand up and shut the drawer on your tv stand, locking the judgemental stars away from your burning eyes. The flickering light of the candle is snuffed out when you place the metal lid back on top of it, and then you take the few shuffling steps toward the lamp in the corner to turn it on. The soft yellow glow illuminates the picture frame that you’re currently eye level with, but you refuse to look at it. You already know Emily’s face will be staring back at you. 

You’ll have to look at those pictures someday- you know that. You’re not dumb enough to kid yourself into thinking you won’t. But it'd taken you the better part of a year to be able to look at any picture of your team. 

None of this is _fair._

Your movements are mechanical as you undress and move to sit in the bottom of the bathtub, and it almost startled you to realize you’re not in the living room anymore. The dress you’d worn to Emily’s funeral is a mass of black cloth on the other side of the shower curtain when the steam from the hot water fogs up the already hazy plastic sheet. Eventually the water rises high enough and you shut off the faucet, sliding down until you can lay in the water. The front most part of your body is assaulted by the cool air that lingers in the room, and you can hear your heart beating slowly in your ears.

There is no world outside of your bathtub. Your entire life is only made up of the slow chugging of your beating heart, sounding almost like a train moving languidly into its station. You pull one of your hands from the water and rest it on the mass of scar tissue that makes up a large portion of your stomach, sliding your middle finger along the divet where your belly button used to be. Out of everything they’d been able to save in your surgery -your life being the main thing- your belly button hadn’t been one of them.

You lie there for what could be hours, enjoying the feeling of the scalding water slowly cooling down. It’s almost reassuring to have your own heart beating in your ears. The steady noise is a welcome distraction from the frantic pace it’d been thrumming at earlier this evening.

At least- you think it’s evening. You’re not super sure about time right now.

Feeling builds back inside of you slowly. You’ve cried yourself out by this point, and you take a moment to scrub the dried mascara off of your face. The warm water feels good on the muscles in your cheeks.

You’re tracing the ugly popcorn ceiling with tired eyes when you spot the bathroom door opening out of the corner of your vision, and when you tilt your head over to look, Spencer is standing in the doorway. His honey brown eyes are just as bloodshot as you’re sure yours are, and his lips are pulled into a frown. 

Is it tomorrow already? It doesn’t feel like that much time has passed, but he said he was staying at JJ’s for the night. 

“Is the water still warm?” You barely hear him ask, his voice muffled by the water in your ears, and you hum your affirmation. The vibration of your own voice in the bathwater sends shivers down your arms and legs. Spencer sheds his clothes on top of your rumpled dress, and you sit up to allow him to slide in behind you. You reach down and rub small circles along his left knee the moment his legs appear on either side of you, and his hands come to rest across your stomach. 

You lean back against his chest with a sigh, letting your head rest gently on his when he sets his chin on your shoulder. Even if your own heartbeat is now absent from your ears, you can feel his through the muscles of your back, and it soothes you all the same.

“Do you think water is wet?” You ask him quietly, gaze pointed at the water that is slowly dripping over the edge of the tub and onto the linoleum floor of your bathroom. Even though you’re both a mess of hurt and sadness, part of you selfishly hopes he’ll fall into a rant about it. You know his voice will soothe you. You feel him crack the smallest smile against your bare shoulder, and he presses his nose into your neck.

“Neither of us are in the right headspace for that debate right now.” He answers after a moment, and his smile fades, but you’re breathing the tiniest bit easier. You hum again, tracing the old scar from the surgery on his knee, and feeling him do the same to the scars that line your stomach. You feel him inhale before he speaks again, arms tightening minutely around you. “I saw your gun on the coffee table.”

You exhale heavily and nod- you hadn’t even considered putting it away when you had stumbled into the bathroom. You should’ve, though, because now you’d made Spencer worry.

“I couldn’t do it, if that makes you feel any better.” You offer blandly, and the anger you expect from him never comes. He just sighs and leans his head against yours.

“I’ve been considering using again.” It’s a soft statement, but he is certain in his words. “But I won’t.

You move your hands to thread your fingers through his, letting them rest on your stomach as you both breathe. “We need help.” You murmur into the still air that hovers like a vice around your bodies, and Spencer nods against your shoulder. “I’m not doing therapy again, though. I hated having my mental state reported to Hotch.”

“The place where my NA meetings were held has a grief support group on Saturdays.” Spencer offers quietly. You turn in the bathtub to face him, flitting calloused fingers along the bags under his eyes. 

“You hate sharing your feelings.” You tell him, and you can’t fight the small, sad smile that pulls at the corners of your lips when Spencer shrugs.

“You’d have to share yours too, so it won’t be that bad.”

You roll your eyes with a small huff, pulling Spencer’s head down to press a kiss to his forehead and then getting out of the bathtub. You wrap yourself in one of your thicker towels and offer him the other one as he climbs out and opens the drain. He wraps himself in his towel and then drags you forward to pull you inside of it as well.

The two of you stand there long after the bathtub has drained, swaying from side to side as you hold each other and drip water all over the floor. Eventually, the chill of the air makes you both begin to shiver, and you wiggle out of his arms to go get dressed for bed. He follows behind you, silent save for the slap of his bare feet on the wooden floor. 

After a moment of deliberation, you yank open the Community Drawer on your dresser, rifling through it until you’ve found clothes you want to sleep in. Spencer does the same, and once you’ve both dressed and discarded your wet towels, you huddle under the covers in the center of your bed.

“Do you think we’ll be okay?” Spencer asks quietly, voice muffled against the top of your head.

The only answer you can come up with is a shrug. You don’t really know if you’ll be okay. You think he might, given time, but you’re not sure. Spencer’s abandonment issues are something you’ve been slowly working on him with -a bundle of insecurities you’ve taken great delight in erasing from his mind- but you know what death does. There is no coming back from it. Maybe, in the long run, that will help him heal. Knowing that Emily didn’t choose to abandon him will be better than always wondering what he did to make her leave. 

You feel Spencer drop off to sleep for the first time in a few days, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you tuck yourself closer to his chest.

You’re so grateful for him. In a place where you’d normally shut yourself off from the people you love -something that had very nearly led to you killing yourself sometime earlier this evening- he’s always _there._ In a place where someone else may have yelled at you for thinking like that, Spencer had only been understanding. He’d offered a solution to both of your problems- one that didn’t end in an overdose or a bullet. Even when he’s crippled under his grief, he manages to be logical.

You’ll do better for him. He deserves so much more than you can ever give him, but he wants you, so you’ll do better. You don’t want to be selfish anymore.

-

It’s not perfect, obviously. 

The support group you and Spencer attend every Saturday until you’re allowed to go back to work helps, if only a little. You spend time with the remainder of your team, whether that be huddling inside of JJ’s living room like gossiping teenagers or occupying space in Rossi’s giant house, you find comfort in it. There are some days where Emily’s absence is so glaringly obvious that you feel your heart might tumble out of your chest. There are other days where you don’t even notice she’s missing until someone leaves a joke open ended and there’s no dry comment to fill the silence. 

Spencer starts attending his NA meetings again, and he brings you with him on occasion. You meet his sponsor and offer him silent support, hands clasped in the pocket of his giant coat. 

You’re both recovering, even though it feels like every step forward is followed by seven steps back. Most of your kisses devolve into tearful whispers, foreheads pressed together and hands clinging. 

You’re both itching to get back to work if only for a distraction.

Grieving is so strange this time around. You have always dealt with your grief alone, and you thought you’d preferred it that way. There was no one around to watch as you crumbled to dust from the inside out- no one there to tell you that you were doing it wrong. But that also meant that there was no one there to hold you when you desperately needed to be held, and now that you’d had a taste of it, you refused to let it go.

It’s slow, and it’s no where near perfect, and there are some night where you can barely breathe with the weight of the fact that _this wasn’t supposed to happen to you again._ There are some nights where you shatter to pieces on your kitchen floor, sobbing into your hands as you lean against the fridge. 

There are other nights where you don’t feel anything at all. You lie awake at night and stare into the blackness of your room, listening to Spencer breathe beside you. Sometimes he sleeps, and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he goes to JJ’s, and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes you go with him, and sometimes you don’t. 

Listening to him cry rips you apart from the inside out, but you’d take his tears over a relapse any day. If having to listen to him cry -having to feel his tears on bare skin and through clothes alike- means that you still get to _feel_ him, you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. There is no alternative that you would accept in place of simply being able to hold Spencer when he needs you most. 

So, yeah, it’s not the most easy going thing. There are still days where you want nothing more than to put a bullet through your own skull. There are still days where Spencer gets this far off look in his eye, this twitch in his fingers that you’ve learned means he’s thinking about using. Neither of these things will ever take away from the fact that you’re both _trying._ You’re working with everything you have to try and get better, and it might be slow going, but you have faith in both of you. 

You’ll be okay, someday. Both of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright dweebs, i'm back and i'm super late AND i'm posting this from my phone, but it's here. it's way shorter than the other ones bc my dumbass forgot about college starting up, and it's kicking my ASS, but i haven't failed yet so we vibin. it's gonna definitely be a bit before i manage to get another chapter out, but i want you all to know i haven't forgotten this fic!!! 
> 
> also, another reason this took so long is bc my four braincells decided it was time to hyperfixate on a different skinny white boy, and i'm officially a steve harrington simp. again. i started rewatching stranger things for billy bc i love that idiot, but then i actually Watched the show and realized mans is such a big dumb gay that it actually hurt. context? titties always out, can't drive for shit, converses in gym class, obsessed with steve. my dad said that's just the 80s but i recognize a fellow steve simp when i see one😤. 
> 
> anyway, sorry about that rant. my bad.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things aren't getting better, but they're also not getting any worse.
> 
> Until they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for child abuse. it's not super graphic, but it's still child abuse. there's also homophobia, too.

It doesn’t get better.

That’s about it, honestly. Plain and simple. It doesn’t get better- not by a long shot.

Morgan is still angry, still shuttered comments and blatant disregard. Penelope is still splintered and so, _so_ sad. Rossi and Hotch are almost used to it, you think, and if they’re not, they don’t make it as obvious as the rest of you. Seaver is still just _there,_ still a new person trying to fill shoes that were never really meant to be hers. 

Spencer is still a ghost. He still flits between your apartment and JJ’s house like a bird with a broken wing, slightly off kilter and stumbling. He’s all tied up inside of his own head most days, tired and shaking but empty all the same. He doesn’t sleep, he doesn’t eat, and sometimes you’re worried he’ll forget to breathe.

You’re just _angry._ The sheer hopelessness of the last few months has melted into unbridled rage, making you feel burning hot just beneath the surface of your skin. You’re a bomb waiting to go off, one that a single mandatory grief evaluation from Hotch and beating up bad people just won’t be able to diffuse. 

The plus side, though, is that even though it’s not getting better, it’s not getting worse, either.

You and Spencer go to your grief support group every few Saturdays. It doesn’t really help, but it makes the two of you feel less alone. It’s nice to know that there are other people who are grieving things, even if they’re not grieving what you both are, and that they have hope that they’ll get out of it. 

That’s another thing, though, about all of this that makes you so angry. You’ve been through this before. You know that you’ll get better someday, that you’ll recover and you’ll grow as a person, but that doesn’t change that fact that it didn’t need to happen. Knowing that you’ve survived losing someone -seven people, actually- before doesn’t make it any easier to watch Spencer slowly fall apart at the seams. It doesn’t make it any easier to watch Seaver struggle to fill shoes that are too big for her, or to watch Morgan slowly pull further into himself as he searches and searches for Doyle. It makes you angry to know that Penelope makes jokes to the open air and then has to excuse herself when they fall flat because Emily isn’t there to answer them. 

But, again, it’s not getting any worse. And you can live with that.

March bleeds into April, and April turns softly into May. Morgan starts coming to the gym with you again, and the two of you shoot the shit while you spot each other. Penelope isn’t comfort baking as much anymore, and though you miss the plethora of sweets, you’re okay with that. Spencer has started going down to the shooting range when his headaches aren’t bad, and sometimes he asks you to come with it. You’ve made a little game out of who can make the best drawing out of their bullet holes.

That, predictably, ended when you both childishly drew a penis and got in trouble. But hey, anything to make Spencer smile.

Then things kind of go bad. Like, really, horribly, terribly bad. Makes you want to implode kind of bad. 

In the middle of May, Hotch calls you all in at the asscrack of dawn to tell you the Bureau is going to be going through some changes, and that you’ll all be asked if you want to stay or considering being moved to another department. He’d said he’d be completely understanding if any of you had wanted to check out what your alternatives were, and he’d only seemed mildly reassured when you all told him you were going to stay. 

He’s gone by the end of the month, though, temporarily assigned to lead an investigative task force in Pakistan. That in and of itself isn’t all that bad. Your team has functioned without a leader before, and after Seaver leaves and JJ comes back, things are good. They’re not great, but they’re good, and you’re okay with that. You spend a lot of time babysitting Jack after Hotch leaves, and when he tacks on ‘Aunt’ in front of your name, you feel like it’s an accomplishment.

And then, just like it has every Sunday for months, the phone in your living room rings at roughly 9am. You let it ring, buzzing around your kitchen as you make yourself breakfast. It beeps to let you know that it’s taken a voicemail. That’s not bad, either. The ringing of your phone is a part of your routine, now, just like brushing your teeth or sitting down to watch _Avatar._ The novelty of your mother calling you wore off a while ago.

You finish your breakfast and step over to the phone to click on the answering machine to listen to your mother’s message while you wash your dishes.

“ _Hey, little girl.”_

Only, it’s not your mother. The plate slips from between your fingers and shatters on the floor, shards jumping around and cutting your ankles. The familiar gravel of your father’s voice grinds your entire world to a halt.

_“I’ve seen you on the TV now, hm? Isn’t that funny? A dyke like yourself all the way out in DC, flying around the country to solve people’s problems. Do they know how dirty you are? Do they know the things you’ve done? I tried to teach you a lesson, little girl, tried to teach you how to be good and polite. I worked real hard to make you a standup citizen. You should tell them it’s all thanks to your old man that you’re where you are now. You’d be nothing without me. Why don’t you come visit, hm? Your mother would be so surprised to have you come back here. She didn’t want me to know she was calling you, isn’t that funny? Had your address and phone number written on a little piece of paper, though, all pretty and near. Maybe I’ll come visit you. Wouldn’t you like that? A visit from your dear old dad? I know you would. Pick up my call next time. You know what happens when you ignore me.”_

The machine clicks off, but his gritty laughter is still in your ears. He knows where you live. He knows where you live and he’s threatening to come and you’re panicking, suddenly tucked against the counter with your head between your knees. You want to cry and scream, but you do neither of those things. It will only make it easier for him to find you if you make noise, so you focus on keeping your breathing as steady as you can and try not to shake too terribly. He’ll find you if you make too much noise, and you don’t want to be found. Not again.

It takes a while, long enough that the thin cuts on your ankles scab over, but you manage to get up off the floor. You stumble into the bathroom before you lose your breakfast, and then you curl up as small as you can in the bottom of the tub and let yourself cry. You’d escaped him. You saved up every penny you made and worked your ass of in school to get out of that shitty little town and you’d _escaped._ Now he knows where you live and he’s threatening to come find you. You’re not safe anymore.

You pack a bag. It’s surprisingly easy to pack the things that mean the most to you into a duffel bag, but you do it in under thirty minutes, and then you're jamming your feet into a pair of shoes and nearly sprinting out the door. You take the staircase three steps at a time and have to stop yourself from picking the lock on Spencer’s door while you wait for him to answer. 

He doesn’t sleep late on weekends anymore, barely sleeps at all, but he still manages to look sleep rumpled and soft when he opens the front door. You must look a little more distressed than you assumed because he takes you by the hand and pulls you inside, doing a quick scan of the hallway before he shuts the door and locks it.

“Are you all right? You’re shaking.” He whispers, tucking you against his shoulder as he locks his arms around yours, and you breathe a wet laugh. You hadn’t even realized you were shaking. 

“Can I stay here for a little bit? I’m not really having a good time right now.”

He smiles down at you, bumping his forehead against yours and keeping his voice low. “Of course you can. You don’t even have to ask anymore, you know that.” 

“Old habits die hard, sweetheart,” you tease. Spencer snorts and tries to take your bag from you. “Nope, you go back to whatever you were doing. I’m going to go monopolize your closet space.”

“You already monopolize my closet space.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

You hear him mutter a soft _‘woman-’_ under his breath followed by a stifled laugh, but you’re already slinking into his bedroom and nudging the door as close to closed as you can without tipping him off. You’re sure he already knows something is wrong -he’s a genius profiler with an eidetic memory who has been studying the way you operate for the better part of nearly two years now- but you can allow yourself this small peace. The less he knows about your dad, the less likely he is to start a manhunt for the man. 

Hotch would know how to help you. Probably. You know he knows what it’s like to be in this situation, and there’s none of the shame of having to tell someone about your childhood all over again. Not that you should be ashamed. Years of therapy had taught you that it was never your fault, that you were the victim from the start, but that doesn’t change the fact that the pity people pin you with when you tell them or even allude to it sets your teeth on edge. You _hate_ that. 

Hotch isn’t here, though. You feel like a child, breaking down in your boyfriend’s closet like this, and you almost laugh at the irony of it. Having a breakdown in a _closet,_ ha. Of all the places. The only other ‘adult’ you know in comparison to you is Rossi, and he’s not exactly father material. Well, he is, but you’re not sure how he could help you with this. Fuck, you really miss Hotch right now. 

You wipe your tears and steal one of Spencer’s sweatshirts instead, snatching a book you left here yesterday off of the bedside table and wandering out into the living room. Spencer is scribbling at his desk when you come out, though he stops to look at you, and you pretend not to see the concern in his eyes as you flip him off and settle yourself into his couch. It’s comfortable and forms around you, letting you sink into the safety of it all. 

“Are you okay?” Spencer calls, soft and sweet and searching, and it makes the back of your eyes sting with tears yet again.

“I’m good, baby.” You answer, swallowing around the lump in your throat and thumbing unseeingly through the pages of the book.

You know he doesn’t believe you, can hear it in the way his old wooden desk chair creaks as he contemplates getting up to come press you for the truth. It almost makes you smile, how predictable he is, but you sink further into the couch and hope he leaves it alone. The phone call is still ringing in your ears, still harsh and grating against your freshly frayed nerves. 

Your dad knows where you live. You’re not safe, not anymore.

Two weeks go by, and you’re still on edge. You’d unplugged your phone and driven around until you found a bridge to burn it under, just for good measure. You changed your cell phone number and provider. You made sure to check the hallway before you and Spencer left for work, and did the same with the parking lot. Always kept your gun on you, or a knife at the very least. You know Spencer is worried, know he’s definitely picked up on your clear distress and general jumpy behavior. JJ rather suspiciously tried to corner you for a _Girl Talk_ of all things, so you know he’s expressed his concern to her. 

Admittedly, the Girl Talk thing was kind of funny. Were you in a better headspace, you’d probably have laughed. You do laugh about it, actually, when you and Spencer are showering that night and you ask him if he wanted to have Girl Talk, too. He’d blushed redder than the silly strawberry body wash you’d gotten him. 

You get a case the next morning. Everything is fine until Penelope reads off the details of where you’re going. You’re doing just great until she clicks her little remote and the pictures of the newest victim pops up. 

“You doing okay over there, Speed Racer? You’re looking a little pale.”

You’re not doing okay. You’re so very far from okay because you know the girl on the screen, had spent your early teenage years worshipping the very ground she walked on. Your darling Bunny, mangled almost beyond recognition on the screen.

* * *

You have never loved someone more than you love Mariah Fiona Harold. 

At least, not yet. You’re only fifteen, after all. The only love you have to compare her to is the cute boy who took you to get ice cream one time when you were twelve, but he doesn’t really count in your opinion. No one could ever come close to Mariah; she’s the only reason you can tolerate living in your awful town.

Where you are hard edges and angry words, Mariah is soft skin and even softer kisses. Her fingertips move like a balm along the bruises you incur in your fist fights, her lips a healing caress along the ones you don’t bring unto yourself. She doesn’t know the difference -will _never_ know the difference- but you love her all the same. You melt into her arms each and every time she wraps them around you.

It’s the second month of your sophomore year. The seventh of October. You’re ditching class to meet Mariah in the bathroom.

“Surprise.” She lulls, straight black hair fluttering around her as the wooden block of a door closes behind her. “I’ve missed you.” 

You loop your arms around her waist and spin the both of you around so you’re pinning her between yourself and the tiled wall. “You just saw me last night, bunny.” You tease softly, and you press a lingering kiss between her eyebrows.

“Is this new?” Mariah murmurs as her brows furrow. She reaches up to trace the barely clotted cut that slices through the end of your left eyebrow. The salt on her skin makes it sting. 

You’d taken your father’s truck after he’d gone to bed the night before in order to pick up Mariah to watch the stars. She wanted to see what they looked like from the roof of the old barn in the woods behind your house. You thought you’d parked it in the right spot after you got back, but you’d forgotten about the tire tracks. The bruises and cuts under your long sleeved shirt were worse.

“What did I tell you about getting into fights?” She asks you, and all you do is shrug.

“You can scold me later. I just want to kiss you right now.” You mutter against her cheek in exasperation. You continue to press warm kisses along her jawline and the corners of her mouth, delighting in the little frustrated huff she gives when you deliberately pass over her lips in favor of her other cheek.

“Then kiss me.” She hisses, fisting her soft hands into the collar of your shirt and pulling you to meet her. 

Your kisses are messy and wet, riddled with teenage hormones and naivety. The world fades from around you as you kiss the girl you love, and time means nothing. You know you have to go back to class at some point, but you can’t bring yourself to care. She is all you’ve ever wanted, and she’s all you’ll ever need.

But then the bathroom door creaks open behind you, and your small pocket of safety comes crumbling down. You and Mariah freeze as whoever had just walked into the girl’s bathroom gasps.

Your heart beats furociously in your throat.

“Get off me, you fucking dyke!” Mariah shouts, shoving you away from her with more force than you’ve ever seen her use. It sends you stumbling into one of the stalls, and you smack your right arm against the door as you attempt to steady yourself. You stare back at her in confusion, but Mariah’s face is the epitome of disgust and hatred. 

“Bunny…” You whisper into the stale air, but your pet name for her does nothing. She doesn’t even flinch.

The girl who had come into the bathroom, a sweet blonde named Amber, runs over to Mariah and grabs onto her arm while shooting you a withering look. “Don’t _ever_ talk to her again! You’re disgusting!” 

Amber drags Mariah out of the bathroom as quickly as she’d come in. Your brain is still trying to process everything as Mariah looks over her shoulder and flashes you a remorseful look. The bathroom door thuds shut, and you sink to the floor. You can barely breathe around the fear and betrayal rising like a tsunami inside of your chest. You sink to the floor as tears swell in your eyes and dribble down your cheeks, and you hug your knees against your chest.

You can’t believe she’d done that to you. In less than ten words, she’d made you out to be some kind of monster. She made it seem like you were forcing yourself on her. Why would she do that to you? The number of beatings you’d both dealt out and received for her- the sheer amount of time and love you devoted to her, and she just throws you away to save her own skin? Just like that? 

How could she do that to you?

The bathroom door flies open again and a teacher you hardly recognize stomps over to you and yanks you up by your wrist. He drags you out of the bathroom and down the hallway, passing your class as you go. Mariah stands at the end of the hall with the principal and Amber, salty tears rolling down her cheeks. They catch sight of you, and Mariah cowers behind the principal as she makes herself cry harder. 

Your hands are shaking as the teacher drags you passed them and into the office. He forces you into one of the hard plastic chairs, and then he has the secretary pull your file so he can call your parents. It feels like your lungs are filling with sand as you struggle to pull in air. Your life is crumbling to dust too quickly for you to comprehend it.

Mariah’s parents get there first, and if looks could kill, you know you’d already be dead. Her mother is weeping as she holds her, her father staring daggers at you across the room. 

“I can’t believe we let that thing into our house.” Her mother sobs. “I’m so sorry, Mari.”

Your parents arrive ten minutes later, and you know that you won’t need Mariah’s father’s looks to kill you. You take one look at your father’s clenched fists and the blatant outrage on his face, combined with the unbridled fear in your mother’s eyes, and you know he’s going to kill you. You’re going to die when you go home today. 

Mariah steals glances at you from across the room, trying to get you to meet her eyes, but you refuse. You don’t want to see her anymore. She has no idea what this means for you, what painting you in this light is going to do to you. You’d put all of your trust into her, and now you were going to suffer the consequences.

When your three month anniversary had come around, you and Mariah had agreed that you were going to run away together as soon as you were both eighteen. You were taking advanced classes to get you to graduation faster, and you were saving money under your bed so you both would have funds to run away. You were supposed to graduate in ‘98 with the class above you.

But now, sitting in the cramped backseat of your father’s truck, you doubt you’ll live to see tomorrow morning.

Your mind wanders somewhere far away from your body the moment you step through the front door. He backhands you less than a second later, and you let yourself go limp. You’d learned the hard way that tensing in anticipation made it hurt worse. His work boot sends you careening across the floor, and when your body settles, your hazy vision lets you see your mother hovering in the doorway just behind your father as he approaches you once more.

You’re bloody and bruised by the time your father is done with you. Your entire body throbs with each beat of your heart, starting in the middle of your chest and spreading outwards into your fingertips and toes. Your eyes are already swelling shut, but you can just make out your father’s sneer from where he stands above you.

“You better get the fuck out before dinner is done, or you’re dead. Do you understand me?” He hisses, yolking you up by the collar of your shirt. Your head lolls backwards, and it thumps painfully onto the ground when he drops you again. You can just see your mother hovering in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. 

The general thudding of your heartbeat throughout your body makes pushing yourself to your feet difficult, but you manage. Your arms vibrate under the weight of your injuries, and you stumble into the wall as you make your way toward your room. The fact that he didn’t kill you is a miracle. You don’t know if it’s just a reason for him to chase after you later, but you’re not going to wait to find out. 

But where will you go? You only have a couple hundred dollars to your name, and it's starting to get cold. 

You pull the shoebox from under your bed and shove the wad of cash into the pocket of your jacket. There’s nothing in here that you want- nothing that means anything to you. The polaroids of you and Mariah serve you no sentimental value. The childhood trinkets haven’t meant anything to you in years. Little droplets of blood follow you around on the carpet as they slide down your face and dive off of your chin. You find your thickest jacket through touch alone, and then you stumble back out of your room and down the stairs.

You’re leaving blood everywhere. You can just barely see your handprints on the walls, the puddle that your mother is trying to scrub out of the living room carpet. She looks up at you with wide eyes, but she says nothing. She never says anything to you. Ten years you’ve been asking to leave, and ten years she’s told you no. 

The front door is just a shadow through your blood crusted swelling eyes, but you push yourself through it anyway. You trip down the steps of your front porch and collapse onto the pebbled walkway, wheezing when the fall irritates your already blinding torso. But you can’t stay here. If you die -and you likely will- you refuse to do it here. Your father let you go once; you doubt he’ll let you go again.

You make it maybe two miles down the road before you collapse, and you make peace with the fact that you'll die here in this tall grass.

At least, in the very end, you made it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey,,,, how y'all doin,,,,
> 
> unsub dad? unsub dad.
> 
> i keep tellin you im not going to forget about this fic. my brain is just like,,,,, only billy hargrove and steve harrington right now. just them. ive got a bunch of harringrove fics in the works (most of them are just ideas, but ive finished one and its bittersweet as fuck) so if yall would be interested in those i might work on them when i finish this one? bc i will finish this one. im determined. 
> 
> also, side note, im considering doing a stranger things reader insert? might make it an oc tho, not sure. im writing it one way or another, i just dont know if ill post it or not. opinions? thoughts?


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